


Dead and Buried

by lasympathetique



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood, M/M, Potential future relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 116,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasympathetique/pseuds/lasympathetique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan Marsh and his family left South Park shortly after a pathogenic virus spread to North America, which causes the undead to rise and crave human flesh. Ten years later, Stan finds himself back in the place that was once his home, where memories and familiar faces lurk beneath the stirring dust.</p><p>(Everything makes sense now, I'd uploaded chapters incorrectly before, but as I've fixed the order of everything it should be a MUCH smoother read)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The broken, desolate streets of South Park were bathed a bloody red by the sinking sun. There was a breeze, high and cold, the shrill whistling sounding with prominence in the absolute silence of the abandoned town. Surely it had been ages since any sort of civilization had inhabited this place. There was a tension in the air, glistening like wires pulled taunt. _It would be almost peaceful,_ mused Stan Marsh, _if it weren’t for all the bloody corpses cluttering the streets._

Expertly, the boy pulled the steel baseball bat hanging from his belt. His movements were cautious and graceful; he surveyed his dismal surroundings like a dancer. Mangled bodies with gaping mouths and horrible, blank eyes lay in heaps, twisted over one another like discarded clothes. When Stan walked through them, a chorus of guttural moans rose into the air, and he realized that despite all appearances, these bodies were not dead. He gritted his teeth, advancing towards one and swiftly flung the weighted head of the metal bat into one groaner’s brain. There was a sickly cracking as the skull shattered, dark liquid splattering like a dropped water balloon onto the streets and Stan’s sneakers.

His actions heightened the noise as the undead picked up the scent of shed blood. They howled and reached for him weakly like starving children. Most were too decayed to even crawl, anchored by rotting limbs. The smell was putrid, thick in the air. Death. In the ten years since it first tainted the earth Stan had still not grown used to it. He wrinkled his nose, pulling the orange bandana loosely tied around his neck over the lower half of his face. Continuing with a light step, he took great care to avoid the flailing bodies as he searched the abandoned streets for anything of use.

Water was first. Shifting the weight of his backpack from one shoulder to the other, he heard the precious, singular bottle of cool liquid slosh in its plastic container. It was too little for Stan’s liking, especially with the recent circumstances. His throat was sore, he rubbed it anxiously with a gloved hand. Any other food would be good too. Medicine would be a godsend. There was a cut from a rusty fence that was beginning to look raw and infected on his forearm. If Stan hadn’t died from a bite yet, he might just drop dead of disease. He coughed, mouth dusty and raw from thirst, but as long as he felt he was able to resist, he would not take a drink. _Tomorrow could always be worse, Marsh._

A bitter taste rose in Stan’s throat when he caught sight of one disfigured body half stuffed into a rusty garbage bin. The torso was rotted and writhing with maggots, whitish pieces of bone visible and protruding through ragged grey flesh. Scabby arms reached out, swiping at the air mindlessly. The face was sunken and half eaten, but still recognizable. Shock rooted Stan to the spot as his eyes darted over and over the grotesque thing that once was the father of his childhood friend.

The corpse of Gerald Broflovski snarled, teeth visible through missing pieces of skin. In death his beard was tattered and torn like a mess of cotton. Where his nose once was there was now a gaping, triangular hole. Horror amassed in Stan as he stared in disbelief. This was a face he had known as far as his memory went back. To see it so twisted and sickly brought Stan to gag. He stifled the sound in his glove and stepped back, retching. Memories flooded through him, seizing his consciousness, and behind his eyelids flickered the faint image of a smiling young boy with wild red hair and hazel eyes…

But no. The luxury of reminiscing was not one he could afford, not in these times. Forcing himself, he looked directly into the blank, milky eyes of the undead creature. This was not Gerald Broflovski anymore, he told himself. He could not bring himself to think about what might have, what must have become of the other residents of South Park. Familiar faces everywhere, but not a soul in sight.

_This is not Gerald Broflovski_

The words rang through Stan’s mind as he hoisted his baseball bat with both hands high over his head, and brought it down with a sickening crunch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan further reconnects with his childhood home, stirring up old emotions.

It was easier than Stan would like to admit, looting the bodies of the dead. In the short time he had explored the ruins of his childhood home, he had been able to scavenge a new, sturdy pair of boots that were better suited for wilderness than his old track sneakers, a sleek looking jacket, and an old silver watch. The jacket was warm, black and made of leather. This was good, leather was one sonovabitch to chew through, even for a zombie. Stan knew it would afford him a bite or so without infection, useful if he ever found himself on the offense without weaponry. It fit Stan loosely, the shape of the jacket held by the stiffness of the fabric, but the length of the sleeves perfectly cuffed his wrists. He poked at his own torso ruefully. Food had been scarce these past few months, ever since Camp Colorado had gone to shit. One of the bastard shooters who patrolled the camps borders failed to report a bite he’d contracted one night out. Came back inside, went to sleep, and woke up dead. Stan remembered that night with snakes in his gut. 

It had seemed like a nightmare, just one of the many since the infection was born. There were screams, and Stan had rubbed his eyes and blinked, peering wearily outside the flimsy flap of the tent he shared with other survivors. There had been Margret, Thatcher, and two other boys whose names he couldn’t remember. All slept soundly, swaddled in thick blankets on cheap cots as Stan walked numbly to the tent opening, still foggy with sleep. The shock was startling, electric to his core. People were running, shrieking, carrying children and bouldering past one another with a brute ferocity Stan had never seen from sane humans before. Then he saw the ones behind the frenzied crowd, the ones with eyes that shone as blank as the full moon, with gaping maws and outstretched arms. Some still held the colour of life in their cheeks, draining slowly to ashen grey. These were fresh. Their legs could still run. 

It was a sick twist of luck, there were so many bodies piled up and writhing over one another that the growing undead mass was hindered, tripping over splayed limps and crawling through thick mud. Stan did not think, but ran as fast as he could. Passing the supply tent, he snatched one of the loaded ranger packs meant for long distances, sliding the straps through his arms and securing the fastening around his waist. The weight was scarcely anything to him in his panic, blood thundering through him as he elbowed through others towards the far exit on the other side of the wire wall. It wasn’t until he was on the other side that Stan remembered his roommates, still sleeping peacefully. 

_No use dwelling on the past, Marsh,_ he told himself sternly. _Nothing you can do about it now, so just keep on going._ Still, in his chest he felt a pinching sensation whenever the camp resurfaced in his mind. Pushing it from his mind, he journeyed on towards the empty stores downtown. Perhaps there would still be some canned goods, maybe even a water jug or two in some storage area. 

The trek was short and familiar, walking down streets Stan had known since childhood. He navigated the town easily despite broken or missing street signs, always on his toes for any of the undead. His muscles were tense, his eyes sharp and alert as they darted over every nook and cranny that passed by. From the looks of it, South Park had been overrun at least five years ago. The decay of the bodies told him as much, but the buildings sang of abandonment as well. They sagged, crumbled and defeated with smashed in windows, weeds sprouting between bricks in an attempt to reclaim concrete and plaster to nature. Carefully, Stan placed his gloved hands on the exposed ledge of a large shattered front window and leapt through with ease. It was an old convenience store, remnants of food and drink smeared on the floor and walls. Stan scoured the shelves, collecting anything still in its original container and shoving it into his pack. He would sort through what was unspoiled when he was in a safer location that was not rife with infection. 

Still, there was strangely less than Stan expected. Many shelves were bare, and in the broken coolers there was absolutely no water. He looked at the line-up of dark, fizzy soda and wanted to cry. The stuff was more available than water, but did absolutely nothing to quench thirst. After a good two weeks of surviving off the stuff, Stan was ready to wretch at the sight of it. Why the fuck is fucking coca cola more available than water, he thought bitterly as he picked through the different soda bottles. With reluctance he stuffed a bottle in each of the side pouches on his backpack, keeping in mind that at least the caffeine could prove valuable in a sticky spot. He toyed with the idea of taking the fire axe from the casing, but he owed his life to the metal bat in his right hand. Stan carried almost a tenderness for the weapon, growing attached to it like a dog or cat. It had not let him down since the day he picked it up, and in the broken ruins of the world it was about the only thing he trusted. 

Unsatisfied, Stan zipped up his pack and ventured outside. Taking care to avoid the broken shards of glass, he stepped lightly. He ignored the looming possibility that South Park housed no survivors. Instead he scrutinized the higher floors of the nearby buildings for broken windows or other signs of weakness. It would do good to have a place to spend the night, especially with the sun creeping closer to the horizon. The air was turning cold, and Stan pulled the bulky leather jacket more snuggly around him. The sky was growing dark, and the night was deadly in this post-apocalyptic world. Stan did not know if it was his own paranoia or truth, but in the darkness the zombies seemed to move faster. They were smarter as well, pinpointing the fresh scent of living flesh with much more haste. Perhaps it was easier to pick out different scents in the night air, Stan theorized. Either way, shelter seemed like a good idea. Stan’s feet ached, he found himself needing to look for shoes one size bigger than what he wore. Days of walking and running (when necessary) were taking their toll, harshly callousing his skin. Often he would kick off his shoes to find brownish bloody stains soaking his socks. 

It was dark now, dangerously so. The air grew bitter, crisp autumn wind biting at Stan’s nose. He walked for a while until he came across the old chapel. One of many in the white-bread red-neck town, its grand white exterior had made it singular amongst the other boxy buildings. Now, the steeped roof was missing shingles, and there were ugly cracks running along the grossly yellowish walls. The greenery of the front was overgrown and feral, curling around the front steps, weeds sprouting between slates. Cautiously, Stan stepped over the creak stairs with a cat-like grace, spinning on the balls of his feet with his arms spread wide for balance. The last thing he wanted was to attract any attention, and the night was so still that he felt even his own breath was too loud. Making it safely to the threshold, Stan placed his head to the rotting wooden doors and listened. There was no sound. 

The door hinges creaked incessantly despite Stan’s restraint, but it seemed that nothing had heard. The handle felt cold beneath his hand, unused for a long time. He entered the church to a mess of overturned pews and broken relics. The Stations of the Cross, a series of pictures depicting in gruesome detail the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, were scattered across the floor, torn and stained. Stan noticed one with Jesus’ face scratched out completely, dark brown stains tainting the picture with a coffee filtering. So many times he had passed these pictures with his family, when his father did feel like honouring the Sabbath and going to church. Play at being a decent parent. He stared at it, a strange twinge in his heart like a sliver. 

The broad, wooden alter was still intact. Around it lay scattered church paraphernalia, golden Eucharist bowls and white cloths, rosaries and tiny crossed Crucifixes. Dropping his weighted backpack like a stone beside the alter, Stan groaned as the knotted muscles in his shoulders screamed relief. He eased himself to sit on the flat, glossy surface and lay down, stretching his arms above him like a cat. The release was tremendous against his aching back, the hard wood seeming to realign a spine that had spent too many nights curled up in fear. His bones cracked and popped as he flexed, tingling up and down his back. Stan squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach rumbled, but he sternly willed it to shut the fuck up. Over the years, especially the independent ones, Stan learned to become harsh with himself in terms of physical necessity. There was no point to food if sleep was to follow right after. Sleep through the stomach pains, wake up, and nourish yourself enough to get through the day. One of his new commandments. 

Jesus loomed over Stan, bronze eyes staring down with an air of judgement. The holy statue was fixed to a massive metal cross, melded to the front wall of the church just behind the alter. Stan stared back blankly, his face remaining impassive. 

“Hey, Fucker.” The words reverberated around the fragmented sanctuary, filling the empty air for a brief moment before fading to nothing. 

Jesus said nothing. His bronze lips remained frozen in silent anguish, gleaming arms outstretched, hands pierced with bronze nails. 

“Fucker,” repeated Stan. A small heat ignited in his chest, spreading achingly to his fists. “You mother fucker. Thanks for nothing.” He spat the words like snake venom. Bringing hands to rub his itching eyes, Stan felt wet tears springing forward. He cursed, sitting upward to wrap cross his legs and soak up the tears with his shirt. He unzipped his jacket, discarding it on the floor carelessly before exposing his lower belly to dry his face. The air was cold and Stan shivered, feeling small. Images of Gerald Broflovski assaulted his mind, and Stan could almost feel the cold hands closing around his naked waist, pulling his head downward. Cold, uneven teeth like broken stones sinking into his neck, bringing warm blood spurting to the surface. His screams would cut off into gurgles and he tried to flail away, knowing that of course it was already too late as his world faded to black. 

Shaking the thoughts away, Stan jumped off the alter abruptly. It ought to be dark outside now, eerie groans sounded high. Stan took comfort in the fact that there was no tell-tale shuffling, and the sounds seemed distant and muted. Still, he was in far too spacious a place to be safe for sleeping, even with only main doors of the church closed. Grabbing his bag, Stan stuffed his precious survival pack into one of the confessional cubicles off to the side in a small alcove. He went into the adjoining stall, where confessors could pray away their sins while unseen priests listened from the other side. He lay down on the cushioned bench, knees tucked into his stomach. Biting his lip till iron tasted on the tip of his tongue, Stan fell asleep with trickling red down his chin, mingling with salty tears on the collar of some stranger’s shirt two sizes too big for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I know it's moving slowly, but next chapter I promise you'll get a familiar face from Stan's past :)


	3. Chapter 3

The subtle thudding just beyond the prayer cubicle gave Stan a nasty jolt as it startled him awake. The breath caught in his throat as his heart pounded in his ribcage like a warm drum. Something was lurking in the sanctuary, something with enough strength to move and make noise. Stan reached for his bat, fingers curling around the familiar handle. He’d not time to recollect any dreams he might have had, they’d all fled his mind long since he regained consciousness. Doubtless they were nightmares anyways.

_Don’t dwell. Stay in the present._

Popping the leather collar to shield his neck just a little bit more, Stan gently pushed open the confession stall door with his lesser hand, the dominant poised to swing heavy metal at anything that rushed at him.

It was dim, like the church sanctuary was drawn with blurry charcoal, and silent. Stan crept close to the ground, his senses hyperaware. Gooseflesh covered his skin, but his breath was steady and soft. His thighs ached as he stole across the sanctuary.

There was a shuffling of footsteps, Stan listening intently and following their noise. Soon he could see a faint silhouette ahead of him, humanoid in shape. He crouched, gripping his bat with both hands and weighing it for momentum. With a sharp exhale he swung, the arc of metal travelling without fault through the air, sure of his swing until his ears caught another noise weaving through the air.

A small, musical humming.

Stan faltered, the shock throwing him off balance. At the same time the bat swung up the figure turned around. There was a resounding clang as Stan’s swing cuffed the head of the figure, who then _screamed in terror_.

Stan yelled, horribly surprised. He jumped back, his pulse pounding, sweat dripping down his back. “What the fuck are you?!”

There was a sniffling, ragged breathing coming from the darkness. When the voice spoke, it was high with fear.

“P-p-please d-don’t hurt me! I-I’m just looking for-for…” the voice trailed off into sobs.

Stan squinted, bat still firmly gripped in his hands. “You human?”

“Y-yeah…”

“You armed?”

There was stilted silence as the stranger took another series of sniffing gasps. “Please, let me g-”.

“Do you have any fucking weapons on you?!” Stan gritted his teeth, senses on high alert.

“No! No, I don’t have anything!”

Stan’s breathing lightened, but his face was still twisted in an offensive snarl. “The fuck are you doin’ then?”

“I’m-I’m just lookin’ for food…the little communion crackers…”

Stan’s stomach growled loudly. He stepped closer, trying to remain tough and assertive. The voice was almost certainly male, a teenager perhaps, with absolutely no guts. It should be easy to get the kid to show him where the crackers might be. Still, the comfort of light was something Stan yearned for. He wanted to see his surroundings. 

“This is what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna show me where the food is, and you’re gonna get the fuck out.”

“I-I can’t… I need it.” The voice sobbed again, and trembled. However, there was a strength lingering beneath the words. “I have people…we’re running out of food…”

Stan frowned. “How many.” If there was a group hiding out somewhere in South Park, it explained the desperate lack of resources. It also meant that he was outnumbered, and if this kid went back complaining about the violent stranger with a metal baseball bat, that could mean trouble. He’d had experience with violent groups before. The cluster from Nebraska Stan had stumbled upon when he was fourteen weren’t the type to take in a starving kid. Rather, they’d tied him to an old telephone pole as zombie bait so they could raid the undead-infested hospital for supplies. It was thanks to a previous incident involving a religious-obsessed couple in Kansas and their hungry mutt that Stan always carried a switchblade on the inside of his pants cuff, tucked into whatever shoes he happened to be wearing.  As it turned out, he’d cut loose in time to scale up the pole, and remained perched like a bird while the blood of the Nebraskans was spattered beneath him.

“There’s…um…”

The dark was agitating Stan, and his voice was an angry growl. “Are there any goddamn lights in here?” he demanded.

The stranger seemed thrown; Stan didn’t blame him. “Uh, the lights in the office still work…last time I checked, I mean.”

Jabbing his bat against the ground, the metal clanged imposingly against the wooden floors. “Keep talking. You’re gonna lead me there, and we’re gonna have a nice chat face t’ face.”

There was a nervous gulp. “O-okay.” The stammer was back, and soon the stranger was stumbling in the dark around Stan.

Stan listened to the slow, deliberate footsteps of the kid as he blindly navigated the sanctuary. There was the jolting of a doorknob, and then the creaking of rusty hinges. Stan tapped ahead of him with his bat, being sure to step directly through the door and not into the wall. There was a fumbling of fingers against drywall, and then the room was filled with bright illumination. The light cut through Stan’s eyes, forcing them to automatically squeeze shut. He blinked twice as the world slowly came back into focus, feeling like he was waking up from a dream. Or perhaps not, when his eyes fell upon the hauntingly young face looking wide-eyed at him.

The boy was shaking like a startled rabbit, no more than thirteen. His dark hair was cut short and unevenly, chopping bangs falling just above large hazel eyes. His skin was like milk, drained of colour, a dark smatter of freckles standing out on his gaunt cheeks. Stan deduced that the kid wasn’t lying; he looked starved. His eyes darted nervously from Stan’s face to the floor, hands fisted tightly in the front of his sweatshirt.

A strange feeling of pity stirred within Stan, mixed with distain. The kid looked so fucking _weak._ Little more than a zombie chew toy.

“Shit kid, you look fucked.”

The boy’s face went blank, then contorted into a restrained scowl. “Th-that’s hardly any of your business.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets.

“No, seriously,” Stan leaned casually onto the desk that stood in the centre of the priest’s office, baseball bat pointing amiably towards the floor. “How old are you? Ten?”

“Twelve, actually.” The tension in the room slowly dwindled as the words the boy said held a glint of sass. His thin body was still tensed, but no longer shaking.  “Thirteen in a few months.”

Stan laughed. “You’re keeping track?”

“Yes.”

Stan was impressed. To the best of his knowledge, it was somewhere between August and November.

“So, this is the part where I decide what to do with you.”

The kid’s eyes went round. He held up his hands, fear rooting him to the spot. “I told you, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Yeah, _I_ know that.” Stan stepped closer. “And _you_ know that. But I’m not so sure what the rest of your _friends_ will think when you tell them about me.”

At his words the boy inhaled sharply, the faint hint of an Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his fear. “They know I’m missing, they’ll come looking for me if I don’t come back.”

“Oh, they will?”

“Yeah,” the boy nodded, desperation slowly washing into a fierceness Stan was surprised to see. “I’ve got a brother back at the hideout, and I know for a fucking _fact_ that if I die, he won’t stop at anything to find out what happened. And he’ll find you.”

Stan’s top lip curling into an ugly smile. “You think so?”

“I do. He’s smart. Plus, there’s more of them than there is of you. Killing me off isn’t really your best option, eh?” The kid’s tone grew more relaxed as he fell into the rhythm of what Stan was ninety-nine percent sure was a bluff.

Stan weighed his bat gently in his palm. “So you think I should just…let you go?”

“Unless you want a pack on your trail, yeah. I do.”

Stan pursed his lips in a mocking show of thought. “Hmm. Well then, I guess you’ve left me no choice.” His face smoothed out, dangerously unreadable.

Then with the reflexes of a jungle cat he lunged at the boy, pinning him against the wall with his forearm pressed over the skinny throat.

The boy barely had time to yell before he was choked off. His spidery hands clawed frantically at Stan’s arm, catching no purchase against the thick leather. Stan gritted his teeth, grabbing the boy’s fingers and forcing them behind his back. Elbowing the boy’s jaw, Stan looking straight into his terrified face. Paling lips struggled to mouth words, but Stan ignored them.

“You think you’re some fucking tough guy, huh? Let me tell you something,” Stan’s voice was low, but he spat the words like venom, leaning his face forward until he was inches from the boy’s nose. “You don’t know shit. Okay, so you got people? Fucking mommy and daddy watchin’ out for you while you sneak off in the middle of the night because you’re hungry? For fucking _communion cookies_? I don’t fuck around. I’ve been through some awful, _horrible_ shit. And now you’re telling me to get the fuck out?! I GREW UP HERE!”

The words resounded in the empty office space. Stan realized he was shaking, anger pumping through his veins. The boy’s face was turning purple, his limbs going limp.

Immediately Stan backed off. The room was electric, pulsating.

The boy coughed, saliva dripping down his chin. He grabbed at his throat, stroking it desperately. There was a stiff silence. Then the boy cleared his throat.

_“S-so…so did I...”_

 The words were so soft Stan could scarcely hear them.

Stan felt as though his stomach was full of twisted coat hangers. “What?”

“I grew up here in South Park. Even before all the apocalypse shit went down.”

“You’re fucking with me. No one’s left. They all turned…years ago.”

“No,” said the boy softly, “Some of us…we survived, kind of. If you can really call what we do surviving…”

Stan could not believe his ears. His head was pounding.

“Wha…what’s your name?”

Another phlegmy cough came from the boy’s throat. His eyes were wet. He looked carefully into Stan’s eyes.

“Um…Ike. Ike Broflovski.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Now we're getting into the meat of the adventure. I'm so excited, this is where the fun begins.


	4. Catching Up

The astonishment shattered over Stan like a window smashed through his head. He looked at the boy again, speechless. It seemed that his tongue was unable to form words it was so numbed in shock. The world was frozen, and suddenly Stan could see it. The resemblance between three year old Ike Broflovski and the bone-thin teen before him was minimal, but there. He recognized Ike’s small, upturned nose, round chin, wide ears, the sharp apples of his cheeks. Reminders of the smiley toddler from his childhood memories all that time ago. Malnutrition forced a maturity upon his face and a hollowness to his eyes, and it seemed most of the joy had been sucked out of the boy years ago. But there was no doubt in Stan’s mind that Ike Broflovski was who he said he was.

“…Ike…” Stan felt like he was in a dream. His hands uncurled around the baseball bat handle and it fell to the ground, clanging meaninglessly. Staggering forward, Stan grabbed Ike by his wrists and pulled him up, gazing senselessly upon his face. He stood taller than Ike, his own chin barely topping the boy’s hairline. Daring himself, he touched the boy’s cheek with his palm, half afraid it would evaporate to mist in his hand.

Ike flinched away. Stan withdrew his hand, regretting his actions. The kid looked completely freaked out.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Stan looked at him intensely, realization surmounting in him and crackling like lightning. “You…you have a brother. An older brother…” his breath quickened, “…with a fucking crazy red Jew-fro and…and beat every song on Guitar Hero, expert mode. Loves basketball. Green eyes. Green hat.”

The expression on Ike’s face was of pure shock and awe. Bewildered, he squinted at Stan. Stan felt like he was being x-rayed through to his soul with the way Ike’s hazel eyes burned through him.

“How did you…” Then his jaw dropped.

“ _Stan Marsh_?”

A laugh erupted from Stan. He nodded, the world still dazed and dim around him.

Looking him up and down, Ike’s eyes grew. “You changed, man. Holy shit…I mean…holy _shit_ …”

“Yeah,” The feelings surmounting inside Stan were foreign, but tremendous. “It’s been a while.”

“We thought…we thought you were dead. Kyle, holy shit, Kyle’s gonna shit a brick…” Looking like an excited puppy, a wide grin spread across Ike’s face. It brought out dimples that Stan thought to be utterly adorable.

Stan spread his arms and pulled Ike to his chest, squeezing him tightly. He felt Ike’s thin arms wrap around him, hugging back with equal vigour. The movement, the warmth of another human, everything felt alien to him. But every cell in his body ached to soak in this moment for eternity.

Eventually Stan gave Ike a few strong pats and let go. His eyes burned, and something was catching in his throat. Ike laughed, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

Ike shook his head in disbelief, the etchings of laughter still on his face. “I can’t…I can’t believe this. We heard about Camp Colorado, the infestation. We thought…”

“Yeah. Me too.” Stan kept an arm on Ike’s shoulder, holding it warmly. “I thought South Park was fucked after we left. I just…assumed everyone was dead. I didn’t really _think_ to…to hope that anyone had made it.”

Ike frowned suddenly. “You’re on your own now.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Yeah, my family, they…” A sudden old pain panged through Stan’s chest. “…they died about half-way up. A zombie got Sharon, and…and Dad couldn’t let go. He got bit when she turned, so me and Mom booked it. We ran, and then Mom tripped, and, well…” He laughed humourlessly “Then there was one.”

“God, Stan…I’m so sorry.” Ike’s eyes glistened, and he put his hand over Stan’s. “That’s messed up. This whole thing….fucking zombies…it’s messed up.”

Stan swallowed. “Yep.”

“We’ve lost people too… I mean, everyone but us turned a long time ago….” Ike suddenly looked up, panicked. “I don’t mean to make it like you didn’t lose people! It’s just, I get it. It’s just been me, Kyle, and the others for the last…” Ike blew a stream of air out his mouth, “…eight years…? Yeah.”

Stan nodded, a pit growing in his stomach. He could still hear Gerald Broflovski’s strangled groan ringing in his ears, the drained face haunting his eyes.

“I guess we’ve all lost people.”

Ike nodded solemnly. Then he smiled. “But not you. After all this time…we still had you.”

Stan laughed. The past ten years had been fixated on surviving on his own, meeting people and losing them just as quickly. They carved him like a knife, leaving him scared and torn. But still here. That ought to count for something.

“Guess so,” said Stan. He ruffled Ike’s hair. “Shit kid. You sure fucking grew while I was gone.”

Ike glanced down bashfully. “Well, it’s been a while. I haven’t been eating the best, but Kyle’s always made sure I’ve gotten enough. He’s a hard-ass mom.”

At Kyle’s name, Stan felt an electric tingling spread over his palms. “Where is he?”

“Kyle?”

“It’s been so long…I don’t know if he’d even recognize me.”

“Dude, of course he will! From the sounds of it you guys were thick as fucking thieves.”

Stan felt the dullest flicker of warmth fill his chest. “He talks about me?”

Ike rolled his eyes. “Only all the fucking time. I gotta say, you’re much less of a pussy in real life than he makes you out to be.”

“In grade four I was a fucking pussy. Now I’m a motherfucking badass bitch.”

“Yeah…for a second I thought you were gonna kill me.” Ike said the words with humour, but his mouth twitched over the word _kill_.

Stan encompassed Ike in a one-armed hug. He grinned, trying to shake the hardness that had settled permanently on his face. “I wouldn’t have. Not a kid, not you. God, never you, Ike.”

Ike looked sceptical, but he managed a smile and returned Stan’s gesture.

 “So…you wanna go see Kyle? He’s awfully different now…not that I remember him much before.”

Stan grinned madly. He barely heard Ike’s words, just nodded vigorously in agreement with seeing the face of his once-upon-a-time best friend.

 “Yes. Fucking _yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another short one! Conversation is so fun to write though :)


	5. Chapter 5

They decided to wait until dawn, as difficult the decision to wait was for Stan. Sitting side by side against the wall opposite the door, in case of intruders, they passed time by talking. Ike told Stan about how South Park first became infected. It had begun about three months after the first official report of infection in North America occurred. It was unclear who first was infected, but the real chaos began when a teacher at the South Park middle school lumbered into class freshly turned. Everyone inside, students and teachers, was infected. The trickledown resulted in over three hundred undead unleased upon the unsuspecting citizens. Ike recounted being carried by ten year old Kyle onto the roof of South Park Elementary, watching the bloodshed occur a story beneath them in the streets.

“It seems so unreal. Like…Kyle was holding me, and I was crying, and there was screaming _all around us_ … I remember thinking that this can’t be happening, but Kyle was scared, and that made me scared…” Ike shuddered, the handgun Stan had given him shaking in his hands.

Stan’s hands were firmly clenched around his bat, but he loosened one for a precious second to rub Ike’s shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Taking a rattling breath, Ike continued. “I don’t remember much after that… it was everyone from our class, plus the other grades, a few teachers….we were locked up in the school for about two weeks…then people started, I don’t know, going crazy. You remember Mr. Garrison? He shot a bunch of the third graders, and then he shot himself. Fuck…we didn’t even know he had a gun.”

The colour drained from Stan’s face, and he felt sick.

“So then, the bodies came back because Garrison didn’t fucking know to get the brain, and loads of others got turned. I just kinda turned my brain off while Kyle saved both of us, ‘cause next thing I remember is having the police station as our shelter. Kyle was ten, and he was trying to load this massive gun with bullets…” Ike trailed off. His eyes gazed off into the distance, immersed in the vivid memory invisible to Stan.

Stan shifted uncomfortably. The room was growing lighter, sunlight piercing through the ragged shutters hanging over the windows. He hadn’t expected any of this, this horrid immersion of the past. It was like a bad drug trip, the constant nausea, sweaty palms, intense underlying terror of the reality surrounding him. It was almost too much.

Stan stood up abruptly. “It’s light out. We should probably get going.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Following suit, Ike readjusted the handgun in his grasp and stayed close as Stan carefully opened the door to the sanctuary.

The room was stiff with anticipation as Stan and Ike stole carefully across the floor. Stan’s senses were on high alert, his fingers twitching at every creak Ike made behind him.

“Kid, be quiet,” he hissed.

Ike winced, the gun awkwardly cradled in his hands. He stayed close, sticking to Stan like a shadow. Together they reached the opening of the church.

Stan turned to Ike expectantly. “So, where are we headed?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Ike glanced around nervously, as though he was expecting undead hands to clasp around him at any moment. The kid really must not have been out much, Stan realized. Zombies were loud, they shuffled and groaned as they made their way to the nearest living flesh.

Ike cleared his throat. “We’re set up over at the old convenience store, the one with the gas station. It’s not too far from here-”

“I know where the convenience store is,” said Stan, picking up his pace and taking the lead. Ike’s words fumbled off awkwardly, and the young boy fell in step behind him.

Ike seemed to be able to predict where the undead were lurking, directing Stan through the broken maze of South Park’s downtown. The kid’s senses were good; better than good. It was obvious what growing up in such a hostile environment had done for the boy. He’d elbow Stan and whisper, “There’s two that way…we gotta duck around the alley…” before Stan even heard the beginnings of a groan. Ike’s instincts had been groomed so young that they were ingrained within him, like language. Stan had to admire his stealth, moving in ways that seemed far too mature and refined for a twelve year old boy.

It wasn’t long before Stan could see the offset, broken looking silhouette of the distance store. The whole building tilted precariously to the left, the walls peeled and cracked from years of abandonment. It was about the size of a small house, only one story, but when Stan squinted upwards he could see a battered hole poking through the roof. Two ladder tips peeked out, and the various supplies lead Stan to believe that someone, Kyle even, had had the foresight to make the roof a sanctuary in the event of an infestation.

Here Stan faltered, letting Ike take the lead. The gangly boy stepped with confidence, over bits of broken glass and around rusted car parts. The garbage and clutter slowly built up as they approached their destination. Stan noticed a peculiar pattern to the debris, the bodies of cars and massive tires staggered, making it difficult to walk with confidence. Ike switched directions smoothly, seemingly familiar with the makeshift maze. Shortly they arrived at what appeared to be the end, marked by two opposing wooden panels resting against stacks of tires.

The gas station looked beat up, but habitable. Ike approached the door. Stan’s heart stopped in his chest. His legs rooted to the ground. Ike didn’t notice until his hand was on the door knob. He turned around and smiled.

“It’s okay, they’ve already seen you,” said Ike casually. “We always have someone posted to watch for trouble through the windows.”

Ike’s words did not make Stan feel better.

“They’ve _seen_ me?”

Ike began to turn the knob. “Yeah, but it’s not a big deal. You’re with me, and I’m obviously at ease, so they’ll know you’re an okay guy.”

Stan shrugged and opened his mouth, but before he could form a retort the door was thrust open from the inside. Ike flung back in shock, arms flailing.

“What the _fu-_ “

But before he could finish his sentence, Ike was violently pulled inside by a pair of mysterious hands. Stan immediately backed up, dropping his bat and automatically slipping his dagger out from his boots. His pulse raced, the breath escaping from his mouth with the anticipation of a fight. He heard shouting from within the house, then the thunder of footsteps.

Two figures stepped out. The first was tall and blonde, his face edged and hardened like a razor. His eyes were a frightening blue, narrowed in aggression. In his hands he clutched a rifle, aimed directly at Stan. The girl was blonde too, her hair framing her face in a frizzy bob. With both hands she held her pistol, keeping her body level as she moved. Her full lips were curled into a sneer.

“Drop it,” said the girl, motioning to Stan’s dagger with her gun.

Stan’s eyes darted from her to the boy. There was still yelling emitting from the convenience store. It seemed unlikely that Ike had gotten a word in.

Raising his hands slowly over his head, Stan backed up. “You better put those guns down before someone gets killed.”

The boy laughed, a surprisingly pleasant sound like a ringing bell. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” he asked, stepping forward. 

Stan reacted by taking another step back. His instincts told him that there was no way he could hope to fight and win, not while both of these strangers had trained guns on him. He didn’t want to gamble on the chance that either was a bad shot; their movements and confidence hinted to Stan that both had been very comfortable around guns for a very long time.

Stan cleared his throat. “Just put the guns down. You’re gonna do something you’ll regret.”

The girl scoffed. “Like we haven’t regretted anything before. Believe me,” she said, eyes cold and emotionless, “I’m very good at blocking out my regrets. Not that killing you would be one of them.”

“How about you shut up and let me talk for a second, Blondie?” snapped Stan, momentarily forgetting his situation. “I know the kid, Ike. I know his brother. So if you shot me, things could get pretty hairy for you, ‘cause from what I hear, Kyle’s running everything.”

Blondie sneered. “So you know his brother. What the fuck does that prove exactly, that you talked to him for five minutes? He’s a kid, a naive kid who doesn’t understand the basic concepts of stranger-danger yet, ‘cause we’re all too busy fighting the fucking zombies to teach him about pieces of shit like you.”

“Sorry, when did I become a piece of shit? Before or after I brought the kid home safely?”

The boy advanced towards Stan like he was prey, keeping the gun raised. “You’re a raider,” he said, the mouth of the gun hovering near Stan’s nose.

Stan could smell the salty metal, and fear pricked through him. “No, I’m just a survivor like you,” he said carefully, switching rails. “Talk to Ike, he’ll tell yo-”

The gun jabbed Stan sharply between his eyes, cold metal pressing against his skin. “You don’t talk, don’t say anything until we get this sorted. Otherwise you’ll be chewing on a bullet. And don’t you fucking talk about Ike.”

Stan stiffened. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, dampening his undershirt. The boy’s expression said that he was deadly serious, a snarling mixture of aggression and fierce defence. He was positively shaking with emotion, and Stan saw his opening.

He brought the flat side of his blade down on the rifle, redirecting its aim to the ground. The boy stumbled forward, off-balance. Stan brought up his knee, catching the boy violently somewhere around his throat. Swiftly he grabbed the boy’s arms and secured them in his own, his other hand clutching the jagged dagger to the boy’s neck. He pressed the sharp blade just enough to break skin, and dark crimson dribbled out weakly. The girl remained where she stood, but her face was twisted with rage.

Stan glared at her. “You pull that trigger, he dies.”

To Stan’s surprise, the girl smiled. Her eyes glinted like marbles. “Why don’t you just save me the effort and do it yourself.”

Stan blinked. “Do what? Kill him?”

“Why not?”

Stan was at a loss for words. The boy wasn’t struggling, but he didn’t seem frightened either. His eyes were closed, almost as if he had already accepted the inevitability of death. It was baffling, the kid couldn’t have been a year older than Stan himself…

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, shaking in outrage. “What are you guys, some kind of cult?! How can you expect him to die?” Stan jabbed at the girl with his dagger. “And you’re just gonna let me kill you? What’s _wrong_ with you?” he shook the boy, still securely holding both his arms behind him, keeping him incapacitated.

The boy shrugged beneath him. “It’s funny…”

“What?! What’s funny?! You’re gonna fuck Ike up, get him killed by your stupid fucking cult!”

“No,” the boy muttered. Then, he lifted his head. “Any raider who knew his shit would have slit my throat already.”

“So? So I’m not a fucking murderer.”

The boy shook his head, his blonde hair bouncing gently. “This guy’s not dangerous. He’s not a raider. Bebe, put the gun down.”

The girl scoffed. “Are you dumb?”

The boy grimaced. “Maybe.”

Bewildered, Stan poked the blade at the boy’s throat. “What the fuck kinda game are you guys playing!?” he demanded.

“Put down the knife and we can figure something out,” the boy urged.

“I’m not an idiot. Get Blondie to put down the gun and we can talk.”

The girl smirked condescendingly as she readjusted her aim. “Aw, you’re cute, hun. Drop the knife and maybe I won’t blow your brains out.”

“Fuck you.”

That stung the girl; her smile slowly contorted into a snarl. “I’d watch my fucking manners if I were you,” she spat, her voice hardened.

“Don’t do it…” the boy mumbled again. Stan was unsure if the words were directed at him or the girl, until he heard the clinking sound of a cocking gun.

The girl’s finger was curled around the trigger, the barest of pressure placed upon it. Her face was smooth and blank, like a lioness closing in on her prey. “This is your last chance.”

Stan pressed the silver blade to the boy’s throat. A harrowed gasp told him that blood was drawn, and though this wound would be superficial, it would take little more for Stan to open the boy’s jugular. “I will kill you,” he muttered intently. “Call her off, now.”

“She’s not gonna listen to me, dude-”

“Then make her!”

“I have ears, you piece of shit,” growled the girl. Her hand trembled.

The blond boy groaned. “Please, don’t…”

Stan’s muscles felt hot and alive, pumping through him. He felt his pulse beat against the handle of the dagger, sweat forming on his palms. The blade pressed closer. The boy hissed, inhaled throatily, and Stan could feel him shaking. Still, the boy didn’t struggle.

_Flex_

“Bebe, NO!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There was a bit of confusion on my part with drafts and double posts, but I think I've sorted everything out


	6. Chapter 6

Gunshot blasted through Stan’s ears and he recoiled, throwing himself on the ground and pulling the boy down with him. The air was thick as dust was thrown about in the air, the bitter smell of gunpowder clogging Stan’s nostrils. His mind was blank, white. He tried to figure out whether or not he had been hit. There was no pain, but that meant very little. Still his arm was wrapped around his blonde hostage, ridiculously spooning him on the dirt ground. Struggling to sit up, Stan violently pulled the boy in front of him as a human shield.

“The FUCK was that?!”

There was screaming, Ike’s voice caught up in all the sound commotion and standing out in Stan’s ears. He called out, “Ike! Ike!”

More yells filled the air with panic and fury. The world seemed hyper, pulsating around Stan and spinning wildly out of control. He clutched the boy, his hostage, tightly to his chest like a children’s toy, drawing the knife closer. He had to do something, before they shot him, killed him…his hand quivered, the slight give of flesh pressing against his blade too weakly…

“EVERYONE SHUT UP!”

A voice roared over the chaos. Regaining his senses, Stan gasped. He re-clutched his knife, moving it so the blade pressed flatly against the boy’s throat. Now if he twitched, at least he wouldn’t spill this boy’s blood into the dirt.

He peered through the risen dust, clouding like fog in the air. As it settled he saw a cluster of unrecognizable figures ahead of him. There was a smaller figure clinging to a taller one, his dark hair and slight figure making him instantly recognizable to Stan.

“Ike, Ike!” called Stan. “Are you okay?”

The taller figure’s head turned in Stan’s direction, and a strange feeling spread over Stan, like his limbs had been turned to jelly. As the figure drew closer Stan was able to make out the features of the stranger through the dust, slim limbs, a prominent nose, springy hair curled around his scalp that bounced with every gangly step…

And it was like Stan was suddenly plunged into a dream. He felt his heart racing, but without the bitter taste of fear beneath his tongue. He couldn’t move, his body would not move. He merely sat there in the dirt as Kyle Broflovski walked towards him, shimmering like a mirage in the dust.

Stan had reimagined him countless times, when the absence of his best friend was a constant ache in his side. He’d wondered about Kyle, what sort of a person he would have grown up into, _if_ he was still living… He’d imagined a handsome boy with emerald eyes, luminous with intelligence. Slender, he’d always been a slight child, but filled out with lean muscles. Clean, trimmed, deep red hair with maybe the barest hint of scruff. A kind face. A soft smile.

Now Stan could see that he had gotten it all wrong. The boy before him was tall, but that was as far as the resemblance went. He lurched and swayed like a scarecrow, his plaid shirt flooding over his body. Scrawny like Ike, like so many of the other survivors here seemed to be. His hair was unevenly cut and faded, like the colours on a piece of over-washed cloth. Worst of all were his eyes. They were the sharp green of Stan’s memory, but they were cold and glinted like emeralds. They peered down at Stan with a clinical curiosity, as though Stan were a lab rat.

“Who are you?” asked Kyle. Though his words were soft, they sent a chill rushing down Stan’s spine.

“W-what?”

Kyle stepped closer, forcibly holding Ike behind him with by his forearm. “Who the _fuck_ are you, and _why do you know the name Stan Marsh_?”

Ike was looking at him, worry wrought in his face. He shot Stan a desperate look of apology, clearly shocked by the gravity of his group’s reaction. Stan cursed himself. Ike was a kid, he probably naively thought they’d all sit down and pow-wow it out until Stan was welcomed with open arms.

Ike said something to Stan, but Stan barely noticed. His attention was absorbed by the boy in front of him, not two metres from where he sat. This boy, who he didn’t know was alive until last night, who was thought to be dead for ten years.

“Kyle…” the word floated up from Stan’s throat. There was a balloon tightening in his chest, seconds from bursting. “It’s me.”

The blonde hostage inhaled sharply. “…Stan?”

Kyle blinked and squinted, confusion warring in his face. Then he became outraged.

“ _Stan’s dead!_ ”

Stan froze.

“I don’t know who you are,” continued Kyle, stepping closer and dragging Ike with him, though he hardly seemed aware he still clung to the young boy, “but you’re one sick motherfucker. How did you know his name? Did Ike tell you?” Kyle turned abruptly behind him. “ _Did you tell him?!”_

Ike shook his head, tears springing into his eyes. “No! Please, Kyle, it’s him! It’s him, I swear-”

“Shut up.”

The girl had regained her cool, it seemed. Lips pursed in concentration, she had the gun aimed once again at Stan. “We heard about the Marshes, see. All turned on the way to C.C. Then C.C got fucked. There’s no way anyone survived that.”

“You’re wrong,” said Stan tremulously. He turned to Kyle, staring with all his might in the hopes that in the hazel eyes there would flicker a speck of recognition. “It’s me. Kyle, please, it’s me.” His voice caught with emotion, choking the words out. “Kyle, Kyle please…”

“Fuck this,” said the girl.

“No, Bebe.”

Kyle stared back at Stan, bewildered. The harshness drained from his face and he looked helpless, pale. He seemed to be shaking.

Stan’s arms dropped, and the blonde boy scrambled to his feet. He turned to face Stan, his mouth gaping open. “Kyle, dude…I don’t think he’s lying.”

Stan stood up to meet Kyle’s eyes. Shadows of doubt were cast over his hazel eyes, but his bottom lip quivered with emotion.  Staring into the flecks of gold, Stan willed his voice to be strong and sure.

“Dude, it’s me…I swear…” Stan’s voice cracked. “…you gotta believe me…please…it’s me.”

Kyle looked torn. He glanced down. “I…I can’t believe you unless you have proof.”

“Um…the last birthday party you had…” Stan thought hard. He had repressed the memories of before for so long, shying away from the searing pain and want they stirred up. Yet still, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, visions of a younger, happier time glimmered like hidden diamonds.

“…we went to that place, that Spanish place with the cliff divers and puppet shows…and that stupid fucking song. _Da dada da-da…”_  Stan trailed off, feeling stupid.

“…Casa Bonita,” whispered Kyle. Stan looked up.

Kyle’s face was pale, his eyes staring through Stan’s own with an entirely different light. “You motherfucker…” He shook his head. Beside him Ike beamed, his smile entirely too big for his skinny face. “All this time, you…you’re…”

Stan laughed. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

And unable to help it, Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle and pulled the scrawny boy close. Stan felt a wetness roll down his cheeks, and he realized he was crying. It was all he could do to curl his fingers into the back of Kyle’s shirt and hug him back. His breath wracked uncontrollably, sobs cracking unwittingly from his throat. Not for ten years had he felt such a glowing warmth kindle from within. The feeling spread, thawing throughout Stan’s body and warming his blood.

He vaguely heard the blonde girl pitching a fit somewhere near the house. The blonde boy seemed to be trying to sooth her, speaking unintelligible words in a low voice. He didn’t care. Ten long years he’d been on his own, fighting and killing and surviving his own stories. He’d never dared to dream that he’d one day find someone to share them with. But here Kyle was, not a hair’s breadth away, close enough to breathe softly against Stan’s ear. It was all so real and tangible, like colour splashed into a black-and-white film. Stan’s heart beat; his eyes closed.

He clung to the red-headed, skin-and-bones, weathered teen, and felt home.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I'm not dead!!


	7. Chapter 7

“So who the fuck are you?” asked the blonde girl, rudely pulling Stan out of his happy fog.

Stan withdrew from Kyle, still keeping his hands on Kyle’s shoulders. “I’m Stan. Stan Marsh.” He couldn’t find it in himself to bear any animosity towards this girl; he was too elated. “I lived here until about ten years ago. I was in Kyle’s class.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember you.”

Stan shrugged. “Hey, I’ve never seen your face before, so-”

“But you totally have!” the blonde boy interrupted. “You went to class with all of us. That’s Bebe Stevens. Bebe, that’s the guy who used to date Wendy back in fourth grade.” He pointed back and forth, addressing each of them.

At Wendy’s name, Stan felt a funny fluttering in his chest. “Wendy! Is she- I mean-”

Stan trailed off when he saw the faces of everyone around him darken. A pit grew in his throat.

“O-oh…”

The blonde boy shrugged. “Yeah…” he said sadly, “But she didn’t suffer. Not for long.”

Stan nodded dimly. He looked into Kyle’s eyes, and saw that they were filled with apology.

“She didn’t get bit, she saved us,” said Kyle softly, “There was a hoard, and we were trapped inside the hospital. She made a run for it. Cut herself so they’d have a scent to follow, and booked it. If it wasn’t for her…we wouldn’t be here right now.” Kyle said finally.

“Once we were safely on the rooftop, we saw her backing into an alleyway, zombies coming at her from all sides…there was no way she would have made it,” murmured Kyle. “We saw…we all saw her pulling her gun, and she-”

Kyle paused to look into Stan’s eyes.

“She chose not to become one of them.”

Stan felt hollow, strange. “I-I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t, you left us years ago,” snarled Bebe.

The remark stung Stan. He whirled around. “Not by choice, you stupid bitch!”

“Chill, everyone!” asserted the blonde boy. “We can’t fight one other, not if we want to survive this thing.”

Stan still felt fire, but it was covered by Kyle’s hands clasping in his own. He realized his hands had been curling into fists around the fabric on Kyle’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. Inhaling, he forced himself to relax.

Distracting himself, he turned to the boy. “And you, what’s your name.”

“You don’t remember…?” The boy looked disappointed, slightly forlorn.

“Hey man, it’s been a while.”

The boy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I suppose…well, I’m Leopold,” he declared, holding out his hand for Stan to shake.

Stan raised a brow. “Leopold?” he said incredulously, while receiving a warm, rather violent shake from the blonde.

“Yep. But I guess everyone called me ‘Butters’ back in elementary school. Heck if I know why.”

A light flickered on in Stan’s head, and he recalled the small, air-headed child that would often trip over himself in the efforts to help others. A smiling boy with a face like a ray of sunshine, who had often been the butt of the bullies’ jokes.

Now, the light was dimmed somewhat, but it was still tangible in the nervous smile Butters gave Stan, twinkling behind his baby blue eyes. Stan smiled back, comforted by yet another familiar face.

“Yeah, Butters!” he exclaimed, “I _do_ remember you…we never really hung out, did we?”

Butters shrugged. “Nah, I mean, we did a few things together. It was mainly just the four of you, though.”

“The four of us…” The words tickled at Stan’s brain. A grin spread across his face, surprising himself. “God, that seems so long ago.”

Kyle nodded seriously. “Ten years is a long time. It was weird, when you left. Even after all the chaos died down, it didn’t feel right without you.”

It sounded horrible, and made Stan regret having left his friends behind when trouble struck. But deep down Stan was very happy to hear that his absence had such an impact on the group. This whole time, even without him knowing, he had mattered to somebody.

Still, thinking of the others propagated a sickly question stirring in his gut. Tentatively, he cleared his throat.

“So, the others…are they…?”

“They’re alive,” said Kyle quickly. A small smile toyed on his lips, the most emotion than Stan had seen from him so far. “Fucking Christ…you’ve got so many people to see.”

Ike was smiling like the proudest kid in the world. “I told you, Kyle.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you were right. This time.”

Stan looked at the convenience store. It seemed worryingly small, only able to properly house ten people at the most. “Are the rest all inside?”

Kyle nodded, “Mostly.” He turned to Butters. “Go tell the others that we’re okay, we’ve got a person up for discussion,” said Kyle, his voice ringing in a crisp, authoritative manner. Butters immediately went into the store, his unquestioned obedience strange to Stan.

“Wow, you really are the boss here,” Stan realized aloud, more so to himself than to the people around him. Only Ike seemed to hear, as Kyle was now giving orders to Bebe. Smiling kindly, Ike approached Stan to utter something softly to him.

Stan leaned down to hear the words in secret. “Dictator, more like, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Stifling a laugh, Stan rolled his eyes. Kyle was recapturing everyone’s attention, snapping his fingers above his head.

“Hey, dude.” He looked directly at Stan. “Stay on your toes until the situation’s explained. The people in there, they’re not the same people they were ten years ago,” Kyle’s brow furrowed troublingly. “They know betrayal. Once a guy’s experienced betrayal, it taints every about how they interact with people in the future.”

Stan nodded solemnly.  Betrayal was something he knew all too well about.

Kyle led Stan to the front steps, and as Stan looked up at them, a peculiar feeling surmounted in his stomach. More than anticipation, _apprehension_. There was nothing to do but steel himself and follow Kyle’s bobbing red hair through the door.

 

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering eerily on table tops provided little illumination. As Stan’s eyes adjusted, he saw that all the windows were boarded up with long sheets of plywood. The sloppy overlap of boarding and rusty nails sticking out like wilted flowers implied to Stan that the work had been done hastily, during a time of emergency. It was hardly a stretch of the imagination to think of what might have given rise to the crisis. There was a musty, lived-in odour that permeated throughout the room, though not unpleasant. It gave the room an air of comfort, if not adding an element of claustrophobia, as though one was underground in some sort of animal den.

As he peered and squinted around the room, initial confusion overtook Stan.  The room seemed empty, save for some beaten, mismatched furniture. It didn’t look like a convenience store, more like the oversized storage room of a Nostradamus-obsessed hoarder. Various guns and rifles were stashed in bizarre places around the room; some sticking out of the bottoms of couches, others resting delicately inside broken drink freezers. There was no food Stan could see, but plenty of water bottles littered the place. Upon closer inspection, Stan realized that not all the water bottles contained strictly water. Some were filled with a thick, greenish blood, others with what looked merely like piss.

Kyle stepped forward and said, to Stan’s confusion, “No crow, just fog. No crow, just fog.” He announced the words loudly, almost reassuringly. Stan glanced over at him, confused and slightly humoured. Kyle’s face remained passive, as though he was expecting the words to invoke something.

Slowly, as though queued by the peculiar phrase, figures rose from behind one of the overturned couches at the far end of the room. There were about five of them, from what Stan could see. Each of them clutched some sort of weapon, either a rifle or a handgun. One shaking figure clutched a small hunting dagger.

“Jesus Christ,” said Kyle, “get some fucking light in here, I can’t see shit past my nose.”

“With a nose like that, it’s a miracle you can see shit at all,” a snide male voice responded.

“Fuck off, open the skylight.”

Two figures cryptically moved to opposite ends of the room, pulling thick ropes that Stan saw led up to the centre of the ceiling. The room was abruptly filled with light as the sun beat down through a massive hole in the roof, previously covered by a massive stiff board held up by several pulleys. Stan shut his eyes and the brightness penetrated through.

Kyle sat slowly on an empty sofa, motioning for Stan to join him. “Guys,” he addressed the room, “sit down. We’ve got something to discuss.”

In the clear of day Stan could see each person, and fuzzy memories prodded in the back of his mind. There was a tall, dark-haired boy with an angry look fixated on his face, who remained standing as though he still expected a brawl. Another blonde gingerly took a seat on one of the couches furthest from Stan, his leg jittering nervously. The only other girl had flaming red hair and was muscular with blue eyes and thin, serious lips. The fatter boy had a crop of thick, brown hair and a smug, hateable face. The last boy was very beautiful in Stan’s opinion, with delicate, elfish features and golden hair that feathered gently to his ears. Each tickled a vague recollection to Stan, and as he gazed at them, he saw slow confusion take over their faces as well.

The brown-haired, chubby boy advanced with a snarl on his face. “What the fuck is this, Jewbag?”

Kyle’s answer was composed, if not a little irritated. “This is the newest member of our group, you fat piece of shit. Or did you go deaf in the five minutes I last saw you?”

“The fuck is wrong with him? He retarded or some shit?”

Gaping, Stan blinked and shook his head. He felt as though he were underwater, it was difficult to do anything but stare stupidly around the room. He scrambled for words.

“No, no, I’m… quite able minded,” Stan mumbled, but his words were cut off by Kyle.

“Shut up you fat sack of shit,” said Kyle as he threw a glowering look at the boy. There was a gleam in his eyes, a sort of fire that made Stan’s skin scrawl. Apparently the boy thought so too because he fell into silence, staring sourly at the floor.

“This,” Kyle gestured with mock grandiose, “is Stan Marsh.”

Immediately a buzzing chattering stirred up in the room like a swarm of flies. The fatter boy was shouting out obscenities, gesturing with thick fingers.

“Stan my fuckhole!” he shouted over the heated voices, stabbing a finger at Kyle. “We don’t have enough fucking food for one more person! I don’t give a shit if he’s the goddam president!”

Across the room the erratic blonde was muttering a string on unintelligible words to the taller brunette, who never took his eyes off of Stan. Stan glared back, his aggression rising. “You got something to say?” he yelled across the room, his hands curling into fists. Immediately the blonde boy shut up, giving him a look like a startled rabbit.

Kyle whipped his head around. “Stan, shut the fuck up! You are _not_ doing yourself any favours right now.”

Ashamed, Stan flushed red and chewed on the inside of his cheek in frustration. Ike entered the room, tailed sourly by Bebe. They peered around, drawn inside by the hectic voices.

Butters looked especially upset. He thrust himself up from his seat and darted around the room like a frantic yellow butterfly, “Don’t fight, guys, please!”

No one paid any attention to the soft-spoken blonde. Bebe grabbed Stan by the shoulder and threw him onto one of the rotting couches. He yelped in surprise. Kyle was shouting now too, countering the brunette’s heated tenor. Someone tackled Butters and held his arms behind his back, dragging him away from Stan. There was the sharp click of a rifle.

“GUYS!”

Ike Broflovski stood atop a shabby coffee table, his tiny pale arms spread in exclamation.

“Let’s sit down and go through this like adults!” screeched Ike, breathless. “Please!”

Slowly, Bebe lowered her rifle.

Stan cautiously uncurled himself from the couch, his head spinning. The frame smacked his skull hard as concrete. He saw a room full of tensed figures, poised for action. However, their attention was utterly absorbed by the tiny dark-haired boy.

Ike stepped down from the table and plopped onto the empty seat beside Stan. The handsome boy tensed, but Ike shot him a meaningful look and slowly he sat down too. The others followed suit, placing themselves in a sort of sloppy circle. Kyle cleared his throat.

“Alright everyone. I know it’s hard to believe, but please, at least _try_ to refrain from killing one another.”

“You’re the one that’s killing us!” shot back the smug-looking boy. “You think we can afford to feed this butthole when we can’t even feed ourselves? That’s bullshit!”

Kyle’s gaze turned to fire. “This isn’t some shmuck off the side of the road. This is Sta-”

“Stan Marsh, yeah, we heard you,” said the handsome blonde, his tone wary. “How can you be so sure?” He eyed Stan with bright blue eyes suspiciously, delicate lips pulled down in a frown. The more Stan looked upon him, the greater an enigma the boy’s face became. It tickled no memory, except perhaps the eyes. And even that was a connection with which Stan did not feel confident.

“I’m positive,” Ike spoke up, his thin voice rising above the tenor of the others. “He knew stuff about Kyle, there was no way he could’ve known it if he wasn’t who he said he was.”

Bebe barked a laugh. “Did he reminisce with you, Ikey?”

“Don’t be a bitch, Bebe,” said the scary looking boy tonelessly.

“What did he say?” Butters piped up, “about Stan, I mean.”

Ike furrowed his brow in concentration. “I told him my name…then he said I had an older brother who played basketball, Guitar Hero, and had crazy red hair.”

There was a tight silence. The red-haired girl leaned forward. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice high and clear. “Are you absolutely positive you didn’t accidentally let something slip and then forgot it?”

Ike stared at her, arching an eyebrow. “Red, I don’t forget things.” 

“Well that’s fine then,” the fat boy shrugged, “If he really is Stan Marsh, he wouldn’t mind a little questioning, would he?”

The consistent referral to Stan as though he was not there pissed him off, but Stan held his tongue. He didn’t want to turn the room against him, especially in such a delicate situation of heightened emotion. It wasn’t until Kyle addressed him directly that he realized everyone was waiting for him to speak.

“Well, Stan. Prove these motherfuckers wrong.”

Stan swallowed nervously, fully aware that everyone’s eyes were on him. There were stares of accusation, even flat out disbelief. Only Ike and Butters seemed confident, smiling encouragingly. Kyle’s face was carefully neutral, attempting to remain impassive in order to appear impartial towards the group.

“Alright then,” the smug boy said broadly, folding his hands together in a grand show, like a peacock showing his feathers. Stan was growing to like him less and less by the second. The boy gestured with thick thumbs to himself.

“Who am I?”

Stan stared at him blankly. Ike protested immediately, noting his confusion. “That’s not fucking fair! He hasn’t seen your face since you were a stupid fourth grader!”

The boy shrugged. “He recognized Kyle easily enough.”

“’Cause Kyle’s his best friend!”

“Not in the last ten years he hasn’t been.”

“It’s okay,” said Stan, sounding more confident than he felt. He looked at the loud, obnoxious lump of a boy before him. There had only been one fat kid in his fourth grade class, and they had been quite close as children. Well, as close as someone could be with such a self-absorbed brat with sociopathic tendencies.

“There was this one kid in class….god, he was a fat fuck,” Stan said more so to himself. “I remember…oh god, what was your name?”

The boy smirked. “Whelp, that settles that. Get the fucking liar out of my camp.”

Butters slammed a fist into the couch. “No, shut up Cartman! Give him a chance! He ain’t got nowhere else to go, and he belongs here!”

 _Cartman_. The name clicked in Stan’s brain like a puzzle piece.

“Cartman, yeah!”

The boy, Cartman, rolled his eyes. “Oh sure, you just so happened to remember at the exact moment Butters shouts it out.”

“Give him a _chance_ ,” hissed the gentle blonde, greatly surprising Stan.

Kyle looked at Stan expectantly, unemotionally. It made Stan uneasy. He felt as though if he didn’t earn the approval of the group by himself, Kyle would do nothing to sway their minds. The way his eyes prodded into Stan’s, his sharp nose and strong dark brows reminded Stan of a bird of prey.

“Well, Stan?”

And everyone in the room fell into silence, absorbed by Kyle’s words. There was a militant authority to them, grand and sharp. Stan grew nervous, but he _had_ to be sure. Kyle looked at him. So did everyone else. Stan’s guts twisted with the familiar sensation of rushing adrenaline. He exhaled.

_Stay calm, don’t dwell, stay in the pre-_

Stan shook the thought abruptly. His code, his mantra for the entirety of his young life, was centred on living only for the moment. The past was clutter, useless newspaper clippings spinning randomly in the wind. Now they expected him to run through the forgotten corridors of his mind and snatch up what scraps of paper he could salvage.

“Cartman… _Eric Cartman_ ,” he proclaimed deliberately. “You had a stuffed frog…named…Calvin or some shit…and, and you were always ripping on Kyle because…”

Stan snapped his fingers in exclamation.

“Because he’s _Jewish_!”

The scowl on Cartman’s face sorely tempted Stan to smile.

“Fine,” huffed Cartman petulantly. “So maybe he is Stan Marsh. Doesn’t mean he stays.”

Butters looked over incredulously. “Of course it does! Kyle?” he looked pleadingly to the gangly red-haired leader.

Kyle surveyed the group. He seemed to be deeply in thought, staring at the waiting faces without really registering them. Stan was surprised that everyone seemed to be content with waiting until some sort of verdict was passed. Even Cartman, who was struggling to hold his tongue, remained silent.

After what seemed an eternity, Kyle opened his mouth.

“We put it to a vote.”

The sense of betrayal hit Stan like a slap in the face. He jumped to his feet. “What?!” Anger plummeted through him with such suddenness it burned through to his bones. “ _A vote?_!”

Ike grabbed Stan’s hand firmly and tugged backwards. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, “It’s just how things are done here.” As Stan bitterly sat back down, Ike slide closer beside him and rubbed his arm comfortingly. “Kyle keeps it democratic so everyone gets a say. It’s how we managed as a group for this long.”

Immediately Stan regretted his outburst. Bebe shook her head in the corner, rifle clasp closely. Smirking, Cartman relaxed further into his seat, spreading his arms as if to say _my job is done_.

“Alright, hands up if you want Stan to stay,” commanded Kyle.

Butters raised his hand immediately; Ike too. Stan was distressed to see Kyle’s arm remaining by his side until Ike noted his distress and whispered, “He never votes, he’s always the judge.”

Stan was astonished to see the beautiful boy’s hand rise. His blue eyes flickered meaningfully towards Stan, but all Stan could do was look back remorsefully. _I have no idea who you are._

The red-haired girl also lifted her arm, and she gave Stan a sort smile that faintly panged Stan with a reminder of his mother. Bebe’s hands remained secured around her gun, lips pursed in conflict. Feigning a yawn, Cartman stretched both arms widely in the arm only to fold them behind his head, a shit eating grin pasted on his smug face.

The stoic brunette was still, observing Stan with a sulky expression. “You’ve been on your own, yeah?” he asked in a husky, monotonous voice.

Stan nodded shortly. “Yeah, uh, since Camp Colorado was destroyed, I mean. So for the last six or five years…I stuck with a few groups in the beginning, but they fell apart.”

“Why?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Stan felt as though the boy was interrogating him. “Why the fuck do you think? People were eating each other.”

“You hunt good?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Been scavenging?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna be in a group?”

“Yes.” The questions were beginning to piss Stan off.

The boy shrugged, and turned to the quivering, fair-haired boy balled up beside him. “You want him in?”

Shaking, the boy whispered something to the taller boy. He nodded, and turned to Stan.

“He can stay.”

Cartman’s face turned red. “What?! What the _FUCK?!_ ” he demanded, jowls shaking like gelatine. “You guys are all assholes! Just wait, you’ll be sorry! He’ll eat our food!” He heaved himself up and jabbed a finger at the shaky boy. “He’ll eat _YOUR FOOD!”_

Immediately the taller boy advanced towards Cartman, a dark look crossed over his face. Stan remained in his seat, his chest beating as the boy leaned inched from Cartman’s nose. His glare was bullets, ice, and a blackened aura of fear seemed to emanate from him. The colour drained from Cartman’s face. Stan glanced at Ike nervously, but Ike was fixated on the action as well.

“You don’t need any more food, so shut up and _sit down_.”

Like a deflated balloon, Cartman reeled for words as the rest of the group murmured in agreement with the statuesque brunette. The red-haired girl sighed and shook her head, shooting Stan an apologetic expression.

“Just ignore him, he’s a dick,” she said, smiling softly. Her voice was whispery and sweet, like spring rain. It brought Stan a hint of relief.

Just then Kyle walked to the centre of the room, commanding attention with a sweeping gesture. The dusty sunlight filtered over his face, turning him pale and glowing, and impossible to look away from. With his sure expression and sharp features, he looked almost like a soldier’s monument there in the light. Plated and preserved in dignity.

“Alright then, that’s the vote. Stan stays.” He looked around the room as though daring someone to oppose the decision. No one did.

There was a rather tense silence, until Butters piped up. “He can stay in my section, if he wants.”

“We’ll figure that out tonight,” countered Kyle. “Right now we need to focus on our priorities.” He gestured to Cartman and the beautiful flaxen-haired boy. “You two have scavenging duty this morning, right? Get to it. We’re an hour behind, at least.”

The blonde boy grabbed a shovel from the ground and walked out the door without question, slinging an empty satchel over his shoulder as he went. Cartman dawdled, a cutting look on his face when he passed Kyle. “This is bullshit...” he muttered.

Kyle ignored him. He turned to Bebe. “I want you to go scouting. See if anyone followed Stan here, walkers, survivors.”

Bebe clicked her tongue. “Right, boss.” Tossing her mane of curly blond hair, she strutted out with her rifle swaying back and forth in her hand. Before door closed on her, she whipped around and looked at Stan as though he were a piece of something she found beneath her boot.

“Prove me wrong, kid,” she taunted through red lips before giving him a smirk and a wink, letting the door slam shut behind her and leaving Stan speechless.

Kyle rolled his eyes, but seemed to swallow whatever comment he wanted to make when he saw Stan’s flushed cheeks. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Leopold, you can get Stan acquainted with the shelter.” It took Stan a moment to realize who Kyle was talking to until Butters nodded and smiled broadly at Stan. He pointed two fingers at the two boys still on the far couch, a ragged thing smattered with patterned flowers. “You two are on guard. Leo and Stan can join you after their done.” The taller boy sighed and stood up, towering over the messy blonde. Together they left, the smaller following the taller and keeping a fist tightly wound in the latter’s shirt.

Then, turning on his heels, Kyle faced Ike. Stan felt Ike stiffen next to him, his head ducking down to stare at the floor. Stan felt nervous for him, even a little uneasy as Kyle’s face was unreadable.

“Ike, I want to talk to you about where you were last night,” said Kyle sternly. He didn’t sound angry, but there was an underlying energy to the words, like the calm before the storm.

Ike was silent. Skinny and vulnerable, a freckled fawn looking into the eyes of a hunter. It stirred in Stan a feeling of pity, less of the previous disgust for the boy helpless as a kitten.

“Hey man, go easy on him, he just-”

“This,” interrupted Kyle severely, “is not your concern right now.”

Stan didn’t know what to say. He remembered Ike’s words of being a strict leader, but he thought the result would be a respected, noble figure with wisdom and compassion flowing like honey and milk in the Holy Land. Here, in this partially lit bomb-shelter of a hideout, Kyle was terrifying. Shadows threw across his face with daunting intimidation, easily transforming the Kyle’s face into that of a snarling wolf’s. If Stan didn’t know better, he could say that he almost disliked the boy.

“Here, c’mon, let’s go see the sleeping area,” said Butters with feigned brightness, taking Stan’s hand and gently pulling him towards the door opposite the front entrance. Stan looked back to see Ike with his head still bowed, looking pale. Kyle’s arms were crossed and his back turned. Stan couldn’t see what expression Kyle had, but he could hazard a guess from the look of Ike’s face. A pang of guilt stung him as he left the two behind, Butters closing the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a downpour of chapter's because I wrote a ton and haven't posted here in forever!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO I SOMEHOW MISSED A WHOLE CHAPTER ON AO3????? IT'S ALL ON FANFICTION I SWEAR, I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED OMG FORGIVE ME

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering eerily on table tops provided little illumination. As Stan's eyes adjusted, he saw that all the windows were boarded up with long sheets of plywood. The sloppy overlap of boarding and rusty nails sticking out like wilted flowers implied to Stan that the work had been done hastily, during a time of emergency. It was hardly a stretch of the imagination to think of what might have given rise to the crisis. There was a musty, lived-in odour that permeated throughout the room, though not unpleasant. It gave the room an air of comfort, if not adding an element of claustrophobia, as though one was underground in some sort of animal den.

As he peered and squinted around the room, initial confusion overtook Stan. The room seemed empty, save for some beaten, mismatched furniture. It didn't look like a convenience store, more like the oversized storage room of a Nostradamus-obsessed hoarder. Various guns and rifles were stashed in bizarre places around the room; some sticking out of the bottoms of couches, others resting delicately inside broken drink freezers. There was no food Stan could see, but plenty of water bottles littered the place. Upon closer inspection, Stan realized that not all the water bottles contained strictly water. Some were filled with a thick, greenish blood, others with what looked merely like piss.

Kyle stepped forward and said, to Stan's confusion, "No crow, just fog. No crow, just fog." He announced the words loudly, almost reassuringly. Stan glanced over at him, confused and slightly humoured. Kyle's face remained passive, as though he was expecting the words to invoke something.

Slowly, as though queued by the peculiar phrase, figures rose from behind one of the overturned couches at the far end of the room. There were about five of them, from what Stan could see. Each of them clutched some sort of weapon, either a rifle or a handgun. One shaking figure clutched a small hunting dagger.

"Jesus Christ," said Kyle, "get some fucking light in here, I can't see shit past my nose."

"With a nose like that, it's a miracle you can see shit at all," a snide male voice responded.

"Fuck off, open the skylight."

Two figures cryptically moved to opposite ends of the room, pulling thick ropes that Stan saw led up to the centre of the ceiling. The room was abruptly filled with light as the sun beat down through a massive hole in the roof, previously covered by a massive stiff board held up by several pulleys. Stan shut his eyes and the brightness penetrated through.

Kyle sat slowly on an empty sofa, motioning for Stan to join him. "Guys," he addressed the room, "sit down. We've got something to discuss."

In the clear of day Stan could see each person, and fuzzy memories prodded in the back of his mind. There was a tall, dark-haired boy with an angry look fixated on his face, who remained standing as though he still expected a brawl. Another blonde gingerly took a seat on one of the couches furthest from Stan, his leg jittering nervously. The only other girl had flaming red hair and was muscular with blue eyes and thin, serious lips. The fatter boy had a crop of thick, brown hair and a smug, hateable face. The last boy was very beautiful in Stan's opinion, with delicate, elfish features and golden hair that feathered gently to his ears. Each tickled a vague recollection to Stan, and as he gazed at them, he saw slow confusion take over their faces as well.

The brown-haired, chubby boy advanced with a snarl on his face. "What the fuck is this, Jewbag?"

Kyle's answer was composed, if not a little irritated. "This is the newest member of our group, you fat piece of shit. Or did you go deaf in the five minutes I last saw you?"

"The fuck is wrong with him? He retarded or some shit?"

Gaping, Stan blinked and shook his head. He felt as though he were underwater, it was difficult to do anything but stare stupidly around the room. He scrambled for words.

"No, no, I'm… quite able minded," Stan mumbled, but his words were cut off by Kyle.

"Shut up you fat sack of shit," said Kyle as he threw a glowering look at the boy. There was a gleam in his eyes, a sort of fire that made Stan's skin scrawl. Apparently the boy thought so too because he fell into silence, staring sourly at the floor.

"This," Kyle gestured with mock grandiose, "is Stan Marsh."

Immediately a buzzing chattering stirred up in the room like a swarm of flies. The fatter boy was shouting out obscenities, gesturing with thick fingers.

"Stan my fuckhole!" he shouted over the heated voices, stabbing a finger at Kyle. "We don't have enough fucking food for one more person! I don't give a shit if he's the goddam president!"

Across the room the erratic blonde was muttering a string on unintelligible words to the taller brunette, who never took his eyes off of Stan. Stan glared back, his aggression rising. "You got something to say?" he yelled across the room, his hands curling into fists. Immediately the blonde boy shut up, giving him a look like a startled rabbit.

Kyle whipped his head around. "Stan, shut the fuck up! You are _not_ doing yourself any favours right now."

Ashamed, Stan flushed red and chewed on the inside of his cheek in frustration. Ike entered the room, tailed sourly by Bebe. They peered around, drawn inside by the hectic voices.

Butters looked especially upset. He thrust himself up from his seat and darted around the room like a frantic yellow butterfly, "Don't fight, guys, please!"

No one paid any attention to the soft-spoken blonde. Bebe grabbed Stan by the shoulder and threw him onto one of the rotting couches. He yelped in surprise. Kyle was shouting now too, countering the brunette's heated tenor. Someone tackled Butters and held his arms behind his back, dragging him away from Stan. There was the sharp click of a rifle.

"GUYS!"

Ike Broflovski stood atop a shabby coffee table, his tiny pale arms spread in exclamation.

"Let's sit down and go through this like adults!" screeched Ike, breathless. "Please!"

Slowly, Bebe lowered her rifle.

Stan cautiously uncurled himself from the couch, his head spinning. The frame smacked his skull hard as concrete. He saw a room full of tensed figures, poised for action. However, their attention was utterly absorbed by the tiny dark-haired boy.

Ike stepped down from the table and plopped onto the empty seat beside Stan. The handsome boy tensed, but Ike shot him a meaningful look and slowly he sat down too. The others followed suit, placing themselves in a sort of sloppy circle. Kyle cleared his throat.

"Alright everyone. I know it's hard to believe, but please, at least _try_ to refrain from killing one another."

"You're the one that's killing us!" shot back the smug-looking boy. "You think we can afford to feed this butthole when we can't even feed ourselves? That's bullshit!"

Kyle's gaze turned to fire. "This isn't some shmuck off the side of the road. This is Sta-"

"Stan Marsh, yeah, we heard you," said the handsome blonde, his tone wary. "How can you be so sure?" He eyed Stan with bright blue eyes suspiciously, delicate lips pulled down in a frown. The more Stan looked upon him, the greater an enigma the boy's face became. It tickled no memory, except perhaps the eyes. And even that was a connection with which Stan did not feel confident.

"I'm positive," Ike spoke up, his thin voice rising above the tenor of the others. "He knew stuff about Kyle, there was no way he could've known it if he wasn't who he said he was."

Bebe barked a laugh. "Did he reminisce with you, Ikey?"

"Don't be a bitch, Bebe," said the scary looking boy tonelessly.

"What did he say?" Butters piped up, "about Stan, I mean."

Ike furrowed his brow in concentration. "I told him my name…then he said I had an older brother who played basketball, Guitar Hero, and had crazy red hair."

There was a tight silence. The red-haired girl leaned forward. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice high and clear. "Are you absolutely positive you didn't accidentally let something slip and then forgot it?"

Ike stared at her, arching an eyebrow. "Red, I don't forget things."

"Well that's fine then," the fat boy shrugged, "If he really is Stan Marsh, he wouldn't mind a little questioning, would he?"

The consistent referral to Stan as though he was not there pissed him off, but Stan held his tongue. He didn't want to turn the room against him, especially in such a delicate situation of heightened emotion. It wasn't until Kyle addressed him directly that he realized everyone was waiting for him to speak.

"Well, Stan. Prove these motherfuckers wrong."

Stan swallowed nervously, fully aware that everyone's eyes were on him. There were stares of accusation, even flat out disbelief. Only Ike and Butters seemed confident, smiling encouragingly. Kyle's face was carefully neutral, attempting to remain impassive in order to appear impartial towards the group.

"Alright then," the smug boy said broadly, folding his hands together in a grand show, like a peacock showing his feathers. Stan was growing to like him less and less by the second. The boy gestured with thick thumbs to himself.

"Who am I?"

Stan stared at him blankly. Ike protested immediately, noting his confusion. "That's not fucking fair! He hasn't seen your face since you were a stupid fourth grader!"

The boy shrugged. "He recognized Kyle easily enough."

"'Cause Kyle's his best friend!"

"Not in the last ten years he hasn't been."

"It's okay," said Stan, sounding more confident than he felt. He looked at the loud, obnoxious lump of a boy before him. There had only been one fat kid in his fourth grade class, and they had been quite close as children. Well, as close as someone could be with such a self-absorbed brat with sociopathic tendencies.

"There was this one kid in class….god, he was a fat fuck," Stan said more so to himself. "I remember…oh god, what was your name?"

The boy smirked. "Whelp, that settles that. Get the fucking liar out of my camp."

Butters slammed a fist into the couch. "No, shut up Cartman! Give him a chance! He ain't got nowhere else to go, and he belongs here!"

_Cartman_. The name clicked in Stan's brain like a puzzle piece.

"Cartman, yeah!"

The boy, Cartman, rolled his eyes. "Oh sure, you just so happened to remember at the exact moment Butters shouts it out."

"Give him a _chance_ ," hissed the gentle blonde, greatly surprising Stan.

Kyle looked at Stan expectantly, unemotionally. It made Stan uneasy. He felt as though if he didn't earn the approval of the group by himself, Kyle would do nothing to sway their minds. The way his eyes prodded into Stan's, his sharp nose and strong dark brows reminded Stan of a bird of prey.

"Well, Stan?"

And everyone in the room fell into silence, absorbed by Kyle's words. There was a militant authority to them, grand and sharp. Stan grew nervous, but he _had_ to be sure. Kyle looked at him. So did everyone else. Stan's guts twisted with the familiar sensation of rushing adrenaline. He exhaled.

_Stay calm, don't dwell, stay in the pre-_

Stan shook the thought abruptly. His code, his mantra for the entirety of his young life, was centred on living only for the moment. The past was clutter, useless newspaper clippings spinning randomly in the wind. Now they expected him to run through the forgotten corridors of his mind and snatch up what scraps of paper he could salvage.

"Cartman… _Eric Cartman_ ," he proclaimed deliberately. "You had a stuffed frog…named…Calvin or some shit…and, and you were always ripping on Kyle because…"

Stan snapped his fingers in exclamation.

"Because he's _Jewish_!"

The scowl on Cartman's face sorely tempted Stan to smile.

"Fine," huffed Cartman petulantly. "So maybe he is Stan Marsh. Doesn't mean he stays."

Butters looked over incredulously. "Of course it does! Kyle?" he looked pleadingly to the gangly red-haired leader.

Kyle surveyed the group. He seemed to be deeply in thought, staring at the waiting faces without really registering them. Stan was surprised that everyone seemed to be content with waiting until some sort of verdict was passed. Even Cartman, who was struggling to hold his tongue, remained silent.

After what seemed an eternity, Kyle opened his mouth.

"We put it to a vote."

The sense of betrayal hit Stan like a slap in the face. He jumped to his feet. "What?!" Anger plummeted through him with such suddenness it burned through to his bones. " _A vote?_!"

Ike grabbed Stan's hand firmly and tugged backwards. "It's okay," he mumbled, "It's just how things are done here." As Stan bitterly sat back down, Ike slide closer beside him and rubbed his arm comfortingly. "Kyle keeps it democratic so everyone gets a say. It's how we managed as a group for this long."

Immediately Stan regretted his outburst. Bebe shook her head in the corner, rifle clasp closely. Smirking, Cartman relaxed further into his seat, spreading his arms as if to say _my job is done_.

"Alright, hands up if you want Stan to stay," commanded Kyle.

Butters raised his hand immediately; Ike too. Stan was distressed to see Kyle's arm remaining by his side until Ike noted his distress and whispered, "He never votes, he's always the judge."

Stan was astonished to see the beautiful boy's hand rise. His blue eyes flickered meaningfully towards Stan, but all Stan could do was look back remorsefully. _I have no idea who you are._

The red-haired girl also lifted her arm, and she gave Stan a sort smile that faintly panged Stan with a reminder of his mother. Bebe's hands remained secured around her gun, lips pursed in conflict. Feigning a yawn, Cartman stretched both arms widely in the arm only to fold them behind his head, a shit eating grin pasted on his smug face.

The stoic brunette was still, observing Stan with a sulky expression. "You've been on your own, yeah?" he asked in a husky, monotonous voice.

Stan nodded shortly. "Yeah, uh, since Camp Colorado was destroyed, I mean. So for the last six or five years…I stuck with a few groups in the beginning, but they fell apart."

"Why?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Stan felt as though the boy was interrogating him. "Why the fuck do you think? People were eating each other."

"You hunt good?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Been scavenging?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna be in a group?"

"Yes." The questions were beginning to piss Stan off.

The boy shrugged, and turned to the quivering, fair-haired boy balled up beside him. "You want him in?"

Shaking, the boy whispered something to the taller boy. He nodded, and turned to Stan.

"He can stay."

Cartman's face turned red. "What?! What the _FUCK?!_ " he demanded, jowls shaking like gelatin. "You guys are all assholes! Just wait, you'll be sorry! He'll eat our food!" He heaved himself up and jabbed a finger at the shaky boy. "He'll eat _YOUR FOOD!"_

Immediately the taller boy advanced towards Cartman, a dark look crossed over his face. Stan remained in his seat, his chest beating as the boy leaned inched from Cartman's nose. His glare was bullets, ice, and a blackened aura of fear seemed to emanate from him. The colour drained from Cartman's face. Stan glanced at Ike nervously, but Ike was fixated on the action as well.

"You don't need any more food, so shut up and _sit down_."

Like a deflated balloon, Cartman reeled for words as the rest of the group murmured in agreement with the statuesque brunette. The red-haired girl sighed and shook her head, shooting Stan an apologetic expression.

"Just ignore him, he's a dick," she said, smiling softly. Her voice was whispery and sweet, like spring rain. It brought Stan a hint of relief.

Just then Kyle walked to the centre of the room, commanding attention with a sweeping gesture. The dusty sunlight filtered over his face, turning him pale and glowing, and impossible to look away from. With his sure expression and sharp features, he looked almost like a soldier's monument there in the light. Plated and preserved in dignity.

"Alright then, that's the vote. Stan stays." He looked around the room as though daring someone to oppose the decision. No one did.

There was a rather tense silence, until Butters piped up. "He can stay in my section, if he wants."

"We'll figure that out tonight," countered Kyle. "Right now we need to focus on our priorities." He gestured to Cartman and the beautiful flaxen-haired boy. "You two have scavenging duty this morning, right? Get to it. We're an hour behind, at least."

The blonde boy grabbed a shovel from the ground and walked out the door without question, slinging an empty satchel over his shoulder as he went. Cartman dawdled, a cutting look on his face when he passed Kyle. "This is bullshit..." he muttered.

Kyle ignored him. He turned to Bebe. "I want you to go scouting. See if anyone followed Stan here, walkers, survivors."

Bebe clicked her tongue. "Right, boss." Tossing her mane of curly blond hair, she strutted out with her rifle swaying back and forth in her hand. Before door closed on her, she whipped around and looked at Stan as though he were a piece of something she found beneath her boot.

"Prove me wrong, kid," she taunted through red lips before giving him a smirk and a wink, letting the door slam shut behind her and leaving Stan speechless.

Kyle rolled his eyes, but seemed to swallow whatever comment he wanted to make when he saw Stan's flushed cheeks. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Leopold, you can get Stan acquainted with the shelter." It took Stan a moment to realize who Kyle was talking to until Butters nodded and smiled broadly at Stan. He pointed two fingers at the two boys still on the far couch, a ragged thing smattered with patterned flowers. "You two are on guard. Leo and Stan can join you after their done." The taller boy sighed and stood up, towering over the messy blonde. Together they left, the smaller following the taller and keeping a fist tightly wound in the latter's shirt.

Then, turning on his heels, Kyle faced Ike. Stan felt Ike stiffen next to him, his head ducking down to stare at the floor. Stan felt nervous for him, even a little uneasy as Kyle's face was unreadable.

"Ike, I want to talk to you about where you were last night," said Kyle sternly. He didn't sound angry, but there was an underlying energy to the words, like the calm before the storm.

Ike was silent. Skinny and vulnerable, a freckled fawn looking into the eyes of a hunter. It stirred in Stan a feeling of pity, less of the previous disgust for the boy helpless as a kitten.

"Hey man, go easy on him, he just-"

"This," interrupted Kyle severely, "is not your concern right now."

Stan didn't know what to say. He remembered Ike's words of being a strict leader, but he thought the result would be a respected, noble figure with wisdom and compassion flowing like honey and milk in the Holy Land. Here, in this partially lit bomb-shelter of a hideout, Kyle was terrifying. Shadows threw across his face with daunting intimidation, easily transforming the Kyle's face into that of a snarling wolf's. If Stan didn't know better, he could say that he almost disliked the boy.

"Here, c'mon, let's go see the sleeping area," said Butters with feigned brightness, taking Stan's hand and gently pulling him towards the door opposite the front entrance. Stan looked back to see Ike with his head still bowed, looking pale. Kyle's arms were crossed and his back turned. Stan couldn't see what expression Kyle had, but he could hazard a guess from the look of Ike's face. A pang of guilt stung him as he left the two behind, Butters closing the door behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

The showers weren’t very impressive. Stan arched his brows unimpressively as Butters showed him the couple of big, metal tubs surrounded by buckets. The floor was tiles and the room was small, leading Stan to believe that this had once been an actual washroom. There was a crooked sink still fixated to the powder white walls, hanging precariously. Mildew grew on the floor and seeped down the walls, mossy green sheening over dulled ceramic. Stan was pleased to discover a surprising lack of odour. Instead there was a sweet freshness to the air, which he immediately pinpointed to the dainty, purple lilac flowers that sprouted through the open cracks in the fall. They were quite beautiful, splaying over the broken white wall like delicate, curling grape vines.

“This is small.”

“Yeah,” conceded Butters, “But it keeps us sanitary. It was Ike’s idea to rub flower pollen in the cracks on the wall, so it’s a heck of a lot more pleasant in here.” He picked up a wooden bucket, and stepped into the nearest metal tub. “These used to be feeding troughs from the farm nearby, but Kyle salvaged them. We get in, and take a bucket full of water, and” he mimed dumping the bucket over his head. “That’s all there is to it. We wash the tubs every three days.”

 

 

 

The latrines were outside. Stan was confused when Butters gestured to a seemingly empty field until he was handed a shovel. “Pick a spot, any spot.” Stan politely refused, deciding that he would keep to his privacies as long as he could.

When they ventured full circle back to the front of the convenience store, Butters cautiously pressed an ear to the door and motioned for Stan to hush. Listening carefully, Stan couldn’t hear any speaking from inside. Apparently Butters thought the same, he straightened up and breathed in relief. Stan relaxed. He wasn’t keen on interrupted a heated argument, especially not between the two brothers.

Ike was curled up quietly on a wrecked leather couch, absorbed in a heavy book that was comically massive in his thin hands. When he heard footsteps he looked up and burst into a relieved smile.

“Stan! How’d you like the rest of the place?”

“It was…nice,” said Stan carefully. “Very nice. The flowers in the, uh, shower area…that was a nice touch.”

Ike flushed with pride. “Thanks. I read about wild flowers in a book from the old library, and cross-pollinated this real sweet-smelling breed with a super versatile breed, so it would survive and be able to grow off the nutrients from the soil in the walls. I figured that it’d be better than smelling, y’know...”

“It is,” agreed Stan, incredibly impressed with the boy’s intellect. Ike was spewing words he couldn’t place the meaning of if he tried, but there was a flimsy falsehood to their fervour. He studied the boy carefully. Though he appeared enthusiastic, there was a sense of dejection hidden behind Ike’s eyes. His words were too bright, his smile too stretched.

“So, uh…how hard did he go on you?”

Ike shrugged in a show of nonchalant. “Shouted a bit... said he’d lock me in the bomb shelter if I kept sneaking out…”

Stan was shocked. “ _Lock you up?_ ” he asked, flabbergasted.

Ike nodded angrily. “Yeah. He thinks I’m still a kid.”

He looked so cross it made Stan want to giggle. So pale and small was he, such a kitten of a person that it was hard not to sympathize at least a little bit with Kyle.

But locking him up? That was far too extreme for Stan to condone.

“Ike, that’s fucked up! No one says anything?!” he demanded, upset.

“Kyle, uh, says it’s none of our business,” interjected Butters meekly.

“That’s fucking abuse, man,” said Stan, glaring at Butters. He shook his head in disgust. “But hey, I guess if you’re fine with a twelve year old kid getting locked up that’s your business.”

“No!” objected Butters, hurt, “No, it’s just…”

“It’s hard to stand up to him,” finished Ike. “He’s been such a genius at surviving that it’s scary, questioning him. You never know if it’ll cost you your life… But in this case, he’s wrong,” Ike’s tone changed, growing peeved, “I can handle myself better than Cartman and _he_ gets to scout. Maybe, if I could actually get some experience, I’d be as good as Red.”

Stan thought for a moment. “The red-head?”

“Yeah.”

Butters interposed, “You know he does it because he cares for you. He’s just worried. You guys are family, real family…and that’s something not a lot of us have.”

Ike was exasperated. “But I was _adopted!”_

Butter’s head snapped up. “That don’t mean nothing and you know it! You’re his little brother, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do his darndest to keep you safe!”

“Dude, either swear or don’t.”

“That’s not the point Ike!”

It would do best to tread lightly around such a situation, Stan knew. But the absolutely gross mistreatment of a problem that was only the result of Kyle’s fierce love for his brother set Stan’s head afire. It made him think of Shelley, and all the awful things siblings do to each other. He was happy at least that to have left her on good terms. Seconds before the car engine had putted out she was teaching Stan to fart with his armpit, annoying their parents to all hell. It was one of the few thoughts that didn’t pang him.

He raised his voice. “Butters, the kid is being _locked up_. That doesn’t set off any warning signals to you?

“I’m not a kid!”

Butters answered as though he didn’t hear Ike’s protest. “Kyle does what he think is best, and if you have a problem with that, then, well...” he trailed off, wordless in emotion.

“Then what? I can _leave_?” It was like a bullet shot right through Stan.

Butters’ eyes widened. “No! No, please, I don’t want to fight with you,” he said softly, taking a deep breath as though he was on the verge of tears again.

Stan felt a sickly pricking in his throat. “I don’t want to fight either.”

“Good,” said Ike, “then don’t. “

“But you, you’re just fine with getting caged?”

Ike shifted uncomfortably. “No…but it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it, eh? ‘Sides complaining. He lets me have books, and I’ve got a bell to ring in case there’s danger or I have to take a piss-”

“Like a _dog_?”

“No! Jesus!” Ike shook his head pleadingly. “It sounds bad, I know. But it really isn’t, not at the end of things.”

Stan frowned. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

Immediately Butters gawked at him. “I don’t wanna sound mean, but that’s an awful idea, Stan.”

“We were best friends. He’ll at least listen to what I have to say. It’s not like he’d kick me out of the group,” said Stan confidently. “At least not without another vote, right?”

Ike nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Yeah…that might work…” he said thoughtfully.

Butters was stammering, almost panicky. “Okay, well, that’s good then, that you’re willing to do that, Stan. B-but please, don’t put me in the middle of this. I-I’m sorry, Ike, it’s just…” he sighed, dejected. “I can’t handle the conflict, I really can’t.”

Stan was gripped with the desire to seize Butters and shake him. Instead, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as though it would alleviate the headache brought on by the whole situation.

“Fine, Butters. Just, just fine.”

Butters looked pained, but Stan ignored him.  “Where is he, Ike?”

“Uh…I think he’s checking in on the scavenging.”

“Where?”

Ike paled. “Maybe give him a minute. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

Stan threw his hands out in frustration, “Then what do you want me to do?!”

“Just wait a little bit, it’s okay,” wheedled Ike. “He’s more likely to listen to you if he’s not busy.”

“Alright, fine. Tonight.”

\----

Shortly after the agreement was made, Stan was restless. The thought of confronting Kyle exhilarated and choked him all at once. He yearned to speak with him, the boy that had been like a brother to him so long ago. Figure out why, why he was doing all these horrible, alien things. _And why?_  It set his nerves on edge. Butters said it would likely be hours before Kyle returned, and thus proposed an alternative to passing the time.

“Have you checked out the roof yet? Maybe that’d be a good idea, since zombies can’t, y’know, climb ladders…”

Stan agreed, not really caring what the activity was so long as it made the time pass. Ike opted out, reburying his nose in the heavy tome he’d previously been absorbed in. Stan had the idea that Ike wanted to be alone in his thoughts, mulling over the words of an outsider. He hoped his words at least gave Ike something to think about.

Butters took Stan to the rickety ladder that lead on to the roof. It leaned against the wall and led outside to a rough, hand-made opening in the ceiling. Stan eyed it uneasily, but Butters seemed confident in its ability to hold them both. The climb was short yet precarious, and punctured by jarring shakes that made Stan tense like a cat. When he reached the top he gripped the roof’s edge firmly and pulled himself up, muscles shaking in exertion.

Blinding sunlight flooded his face in a beating warmth as he sat upon the heated shingles. Following shortly, Butters smiled passively at Stan. Stan ignored the gesture. Rather, he scrambled to his feet and tread carefully over the hot rooftop, glistening like black diamond in the sun. He heard Butters shuffling behind him slowly, but found he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and offer the blonde a kind gesture. The silence choked Stan’s throat, but his stubbornness would not let him break it.

On the opposite side of the slanted roof were the two boys Kyle had put on guard duty. The smaller one was sitting closer to the top, arms wrapped around his knees in a show of nervousness. The other boy was slouched beside him, long limbs folded in like a vulture. He gazed over the broken town of South Park, his face a blank slate. When Stan approached, he didn’t do so much as glance over.

Butters caught up to Stan, panting slightly. He brushed the dirt off of his shirt rather primly. “So, ah, this is guard duty. It’s not much, but on warm days it can be real nice, like sunbathing almost.”

Stan’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure.”

“So…” said Butters, “Have y’all been introduced yet?”

The brunette finally looked over, his expression dark. “Tucker.”

“What?”

“That’s Craig,” exclaimed Butters helpfully, “But he likes his last name better, so you can call him Tucker.”

Tucker, or Craig, stared sourly for a moment before turning back to his soulless gaze over the horizon.

Stan shrugged off the jilt. It wasn’t like his social skills were any better.

“Who’s the other kid?”

“ _Ng!”_

A nervous sound erupted from the feathery blonde, and he glanced at Stan with wild brown eyes. “I’m Tweak.”

Mildly surprised that the boy had responded, Stan nodded congenially. “Tweak. Alright. I’m Stan.”

“I know,” the boy exclaimed. “Are you gonna loot us? I don’t wanna die today!”

“Wha-what? No!” blurted Stan, thrown by the sheer oddity of the question.

“ _Ack!_ So you’ve been bitten?!?”

“No! No, I’m just a guy.”

“Oh! Okay, good.” Twitching incessantly, Tweak’s posture relaxed and he rested his head against the crook of Craig’s slender neck.

Stan gawked silently at the blonde’s extreme show, but Butters was hardly surprised by the behaviour. “He’s a bit…paranoid. And unpredictable.” he whispered quietly.

 _No kidding_ , thought Stan. Unsure of what to do, he sat down beside Craig. The stoic boy hardly reacted, giving him neither a sign of welcome nor hostility. Settling beside him, Butters’ whistling filled the otherwise stiff silence.

“So we just watch the town for survivors, undead, anything that ought to be reported to Kyle,” explained Butters as the four of them surveyed the wreckage of civilization below them, bathed red in the bloody summer sun. “Someone will get us when it’s time to switch off, in about two hours or so.” Stan still felt resentment slivered towards Butters, and remained silent. He turned his eyes to the town, gazing beyond the wreckage all the way to the purpled mountains that smeared the background.

So they sat there on the warm rooftop with the gentle breeze rustling through their hair, and Stan breathed in the cool, crisp scent of the coming autumn. The soft humming was delicate, like a butterfly flittering through the air. A state of exhilaration overtook Stan as he couldn’t help but listen to the music he did not sing, seeing the movement he did not make out of the corner of his eyes. Breathing, human bodies were all around him, warm and soft and real. Craig’s dark lashes fluttered when he blinked, ridiculously long and full. He counted the freckles paly smattered over Tweak’s nose, and was stunned by the rosy flush that filled his cheeks when he caught Stan staring at him. Even the crisp, light tenor of Butter’s humming was a revelation. All these things he hadn’t known for the past ten years, eyelashes, freckles, beautiful voices. They filled him up and poured through his body with a slow warmth. He sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket discretely.

The sun sank red over the horizon, setting the darkening sky aflame with orange and red, and Stan’s muscles grew stiff. He rubbed them, digging his fingers into the muscle and squeezing the stress out. Around a particularly tender spot he winced, letting out an audible hiss. It startled Tweak, who whipped his head in the direction of the noise and screeched.

“ _What was that_?!”

Stan jumped at the sound. “Jeez, nothing!” He was about to say more, but a withering glare from Craig had him snapping his mouth shut.

Instead he listened the song that poured from Butter’s closed lips. It was jovial and light, like a sea shanty sung by young sailors. For as long as they had been sitting there, Butter’s had been humming. It was like he was unaware of it, an ingrained reflex natural as breathing. It softened something in Stan, and he decided it was probably stupid to hold a grudge against one of the few people actually trying to make him feel like he had a place here in South Park.

Stan nudged Butters. “Doesn’t your throat get sore?”

Butters looked ruffled to be interrupted, but he answered Stan’s questions congenially. “Sometimes, but I’d rather my throat hurt than stop. It’s one of my, uh, coping mechanisms I guess.” He laughed lightly.

“That’s understandable.” Stan thought wistfully of his baseball bat, pure glistening silver as it smashed into undead faces. It was undoubtedly somewhere downstairs in another great pile of weapons. The thought panged him, but he decided not to bring it up, not so long as he was perceived as a threat by the people around him. Tweak seemed reluctant to trust, and Craig was naturally alienating.

He glanced sideways at the two, prodding at what little memory he had left of fourth grade. The only thing that came to his mind when he thought the name ‘Craig Tucker’ was _dick_. Dick and a pan flute. Fuck if he knew why.

Tweak was easier. He was that spastic kid that never stopped moving, pissing off every other fourth grader with his waggling leg and uncontrollable outbursts. Back then he was a short, volatile boy with flyaway yellow hair and shabby clothes, like his parents didn’t help him dress himself. Now, ten years later, he hardly seemed better off. A rumpled sweater the colour of wine hung off his wiry frame, loose threads poking through the cuffs. Scrappy brown logger’s boots. Once upon a time Stan might have commented on the rather feminine black leggings clinging to his twiggy legs, but the weight of his recently acclaimed leather jacket reminded him of the scarcity of clothes in this world, and he held his tongue.

He watched them for a while, noting their body language. After being on his own, everything and everyone foreign was intensely interesting. Casually Craig draped an arm around the smaller blonde, eliciting mild surprise from Stan. He noted the way Tweak leaned into the touch, jittering a little less with the lengthy limb weighing down on him. It reminded him of two older, very familiar faces that he’d tried to scourge his memory of time and time again. But the distinct tenderness, the spark in the air was undoubtedly recognizable.

“Are you guys a couple?” The question jumped out unsolicited. Butters looked over, mouth dropped and utterly scandalized.

“Stan, you don’t just ask people that!” said Butters in an utterly scandalized voice.

Stan furrowed his brow. “Don’t you?”

“Well…I don’t know!” exclaimed Butters, flustered. “It’s been a while since we’ve had someone disrupt the etiquette of our group. It’s weird how you don’t, just, know things.”

Stan shrugged. He was still curious.

Craig turned his dark eyes to Stan. “Yeah.”

Stan waited, mildly uncomfortable when he realized Craig made no plans to elaborate. “How long have you guys been together?”

Now Craig looked over sharply, his straight, definite nose pointing at Stan like an accusing finger, eyes like coal. “Why do you want to know?”

The aggression of the question put Stan off, and he shrugged. “Curious, I guess? You don’t need to answer.”

“I won’t.”

“Good, fine,” said Stan, pissed. “God, you must be fun at parties.”

 “Why did you want to keep him again?” asked Craig, looking at Tweak boredly.

“Because – _ng_ \- he’s one of us. And god Craig, don’t be a dick,” scolded the unkept blonde. 

Craig sighed, but shrugged off the retort. His expression turned sour when Tweak deftly removed the lanky arm from around his shoulders and walked to other side of the bitter brunette, sitting next to Stan.

Tweak offered Stan a lopsided grin. “Sorry about him, he’s an asshole. And, uh…” he glanced downwards, picking furiously at his fingernails, “…sorry I thought you were, like, a murderer. You just never know these days!” He looked up at Stan suddenly, wild-eyed. With his pale blonde, near invisible brows elevated to the extreme, Tweak looked ready to burst from anxiety. “Everyone’s out to kill one another! Even people you think you trust, and-and _know_. It’s so _frustrating_. I really can’t take it. Can’t. Lies and guns, it’s like that’s all some people need!” His movements became more frantic as he wound himself up. Butters looked a bit sick, eyeing Tweak with something like fear, but fuck it if Stan knew why.

Butters tugged Stan’s arm meekly. “Hey, uh, maybe I think there’s something downstairs that I want you to-”

“Show me later,” interrupted Stan. God, Butters could be annoying when he didn’t shut up.

“And the _killing_ , I mean, Jesus!” Tweak continued as though neither boy said anything. “Everyone’s _killing_ everybody, and, and _stealing_ everything. It’s like the whole world’s out to get you!

Stan sighed heavily. “I hear you.”

“And you have your friends, and if someone isn’t your friend, they’re your enemy. It’s so fucked, everything’s so fucked. Enemies right under your nose, and the others don’t even know. Can’t say anything, ‘cause then they’ll know you know, and that’s when they _get_ you. It’s so _frustrating_.”

“Uh, is that why you didn’t say anything back when everyone was voting?” asked Stan, trying to connect the disarraying dots of Tweak’s vague speech patterns. It seemed an innocent enough question.

The blonde froze. He looked utterly perplexed. Beside him Craig tensed, black eyes gleaming.

 “W-what do you mean?!”

“I dunno,” said Stan, “You didn’t seem real keen on talking back in the room. Y’know, when you guys were all deciding my fate. What the fuck happened? Cat got your tongue?”  He laughed casually, but the noise dropped like a stone in water when he saw Craig. Glaring fiercely, the boy had such rage on his face that it caught Stan’s voice in his throat. It was like staring down a great black bull, cleaving the ground with razor hoofs in a precedent to the charge.  

Even the music faltered, and Stan realized Butters had been listening the whole time. He’d forgotten that the sensitive blonde had even been there for a moment, the melodies fading into the background like wind.

“That’s kinda…I mean, Stan…” mumbled Butters timidly. “I think uh, maybe we should go…”

_SMACK_

“No!” exclaimed Tweak with such furious passion he smacked a spidery hand against the shingles. “You let me speak! I’m not a baby, I can talk to Stan!”

Butters paled. He stumbled for words, desperately backpedalling. “I never said you were, Tweak, I just-”

“NO!” screamed the boy abruptly, scrambling to his feet in a sudden emotional explosion. “YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

He made to charge at Butters, fists balled in rage when Craig’s arm snapped out and grabbed the blonde’s shaking wrist. Tweak jolted back, thrown off the momentum of his advance, and clumsily fell over Craig’s legs.

“LET GO YOU FUCKER!”

Craig merely looked at Stan, keeping the flailing boy locked in his arms. He clamped a large hand over Tweak’s mouth, muffling the spitting shrieks of profanity.

Stan was at a loss for words. From zero to a hundred, just like that. His heart felt sick, he was so freaked out.

Craig stood up, dragging the struggling blonde with him. Without a word he made for the ladder, shifting his hold on Tweak to one arm while he grasped the top rung with the other. As he awkwardly descended, wincing off stray kicks and punches, he stared wordlessly at Stan. Like it was his fault.

Stan turned to Butters. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?!” he demanded.

Butters looked uncomfortable. “Craig or Tweak?”

“Fuck, both of them! That scream was a good as a zombie magnet, why the fuck did he go off like that?!”

“Well…” slowly started Butters, “to be fair, he hasn’t been quite that bad for a while…”

“That _bad_?!”

“Okay, look!” said Butters with uncharacteristic finality. “I’ll be the first to admit, Tweak’s definitely got some baggage. Who doesn’t?! He just gets stressed out, and that gets him angry, which stresses him out more ‘cause he’ll try to bottle it up, and it’s just one vicious cycle till he explodes. That’s his deal.” Finished, Butter was breathing hard. His expression was one of defeat. “Is that good enough for you?”

A twinge of guilt fluttered in Stan’s ribcage, but he refused to let Butter’s make him feel as though _he_ was in the wrong.

“Yeah, it is. At least we know _why_ he’s an uncontrollable human bomb. That’s much better.”

“The sarcasm isn’t helpful, Stan. And you did provoke him.”

“I asked him a question!”

“A private one,” retorted Butters, softness returning to his voice. “He… he has trust issues. He thinks that…certain people in the group are a danger to him. For no reason. It’s something the group’s dealt with already. I don’t feel it’s my right to tell you. How would you feel if Craig asked you about your family, why you were alone?”

Stan’s lip curled. “You stop right there.”

“I will,” conceded the blonde quickly. His gaze was tangible on Stan’s skin, blue eyes deep with sympathy. It made Stan want to punch something. “I just want you to understand.”

“It was you defending him that set him off in the first place.” Stan flung the words.

“That doesn’t matter, please Stan, just listen-”

A muffled _bang_ peppered the air, silencing Butters. Stan straightened up. The sound tickled something funny. He tilted his head like a dog on a scent, intuition tingling in his gut. _Something was wrong._ Cold sweat slicked the pits of his shirt when he saw the figures in the distance, no bigger than toy soldiers from the distance they were at.

 A girl running at breakneck speed, a short, thick mass of blonde hair wailing behind her like a gale. Legs stretching expertly over the broken terrain, landing surely over rocks and weeds. Every few steps she whipped around and raised the rifle in her hands, letting off a few _bangs_ at the rotting cluster of the undead hot on her tail.

They stumbled and shuffled like drunkards, stiff limbs sprawled out riotously in front of them. There were seven or eight of them, each a variation of oozing, bloated grotesqueness. A few trundled on their dead, rotting feet. But others were fresher. One flailed, sprinting with an uneven gait towards the living girl. From Stan’s vantage point, it looked as though the distance between the two was closing.

“Oh _shit”_

Stan barely heard Butters. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t breathe. Without thought he dashed to the edge of the roof and jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's going dooooooown


	10. Chapter 10

Shortly after the agreement was made, Stan was restless. The thought of confronting Kyle exhilarated and choked him all at once. He yearned to speak with him, the boy that had been like a brother to him so long ago. Figure out why, why he was doing all these horrible, alien things.  _And why?_ It set his nerves on edge. Butters said it would likely be hours before Kyle returned, and thus proposed an alternative to passing the time.

"Have you checked out the roof yet? Maybe that'd be a good idea, since zombies can't, y'know, climb ladders…"

Stan agreed, not really caring what the activity was so long as it made the time pass. Ike opted out, reburying his nose in the heavy tome he'd previously been absorbed in. Stan had the idea that Ike wanted to be alone in his thoughts, mulling over the words of an outsider. He hoped his words at least gave Ike something to think about.

Butters took Stan to the rickety ladder that lead on to the roof. It leaned against the wall and led outside to a rough, hand-made opening in the ceiling. Stan eyed it uneasily, but Butters seemed confident in its ability to hold them both. The climb was short yet precarious, and punctured by jarring shakes that made Stan tense like a cat. When he reached the top he gripped the roof's edge firmly and pulled himself up, muscles shaking in exertion.

Blinding sunlight flooded his face in a beating warmth as he sat upon the heated shingles. Following shortly, Butters smiled passively at Stan. Stan ignored the gesture. Rather, he scrambled to his feet and tread carefully over the hot rooftop, glistening like black diamond in the sun. He heard Butters shuffling behind him slowly, but found he couldn't bring himself to turn around and offer the blonde a kind gesture. The silence choked Stan's throat, but his stubbornness would not let him break it.

On the opposite side of the slanted roof were the two boys Kyle had put on guard duty. The smaller one was sitting closer to the top, arms wrapped around his knees in a show of nervousness. The other boy was slouched beside him, long limbs folded in like a vulture. He gazed over the broken town of South Park, his face a blank slate. When Stan approached, he didn't do so much as glance over.

Butters caught up to Stan, panting slightly. He brushed the dirt off of his shirt rather primly. "So, ah, this is guard duty. It's not much, but on warm days it can be real nice, like sunbathing almost."

Stan's mouth twitched. "I'm sure."

"So…" said Butters, "Have y'all been introduced yet?"

The brunette finally looked over, his expression dark. "Tucker."

"What?"

"That's Craig," exclaimed Butters helpfully, "But he likes his last name better, so you can call him Tucker."

Tucker, or Craig, stared sourly for a moment before turning back to his soulless gaze over the horizon.

Stan shrugged off the jilt. It wasn't like his social skills were any better.

"Who's the other kid?"

" _Ng!"_

A nervous sound erupted from the feathery blonde, and he glanced at Stan with wild brown eyes. "I'm Tweak."

Mildly surprised that the boy had responded, Stan nodded congenially. "Tweak. Alright. I'm Stan."

"I know," the boy exclaimed. "Are you gonna loot us? I don't wanna die today!"

"Wha-what? No!" blurted Stan, thrown by the sheer oddity of the question.

" _Ack!_  So you've been bitten?!"

"No! No, I'm just a guy."

"Oh! Okay, good." Twitching incessantly, Tweak's posture relaxed and he rested his head against the crook of Craig's slender neck.

Stan gawked silently at the blonde's extreme show, but Butters was hardly surprised by the behaviour. "He's a bit…paranoid. And unpredictable." he whispered quietly.

 _No kidding_ , thought Stan. Unsure of what to do, he sat down beside Craig. The stoic boy hardly reacted, giving him neither a sign of welcome nor hostility. Settling beside him, Butters' whistling filled the otherwise stiff silence.

"So we just watch the town for survivors, undead, anything that ought to be reported to Kyle," explained Butters as the four of them surveyed the wreckage of civilization below them, bathed red in the bloody summer sun. "Someone will get us when it's time to switch off, in about two hours or so." Stan still felt resentment slivered towards Butters, and remained silent. He turned his eyes to the town, gazing beyond the wreckage all the way to the purpled mountains that smeared the background.

So they sat there on the warm rooftop with the gentle breeze rustling through their hair, and Stan breathed in the cool, crisp scent of the coming autumn. The soft humming was delicate, like a butterfly flittering through the air. A state of exhilaration overtook Stan as he couldn't help but listen to the music he did not sing, seeing the movement he did not make out of the corner of his eyes. Breathing, human bodies were all around him, warm and soft and real. Craig's dark lashes fluttered when he blinked, ridiculously long and full. He counted the freckles paly smattered over Tweak's nose, and was stunned by the rosy flush that filled his cheeks when he caught Stan staring at him. Even the crisp, light tenor of Butter's humming was a revelation. All these things he hadn't known for the past ten years, eyelashes, freckles, beautiful voices. They filled him up and poured through his body with a slow warmth. He sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket discretely.

The sun sank red over the horizon, setting the darkening sky aflame with orange and red, and Stan's muscles grew stiff. He rubbed them, digging his fingers into the muscle and squeezing the stress out. Around a particularly tender spot he winced, letting out an audible hiss. It startled Tweak, who whipped his head in the direction of the noise and screeched.

" _What was that_?!"

Stan jumped at the sound. "Jeez, nothing!" He was about to say more, but a withering glare from Craig had him snapping his mouth shut.

Instead he listened the song that poured from Butter's closed lips. It was jovial and light, like a sea shanty sung by young sailors. For as long as they had been sitting there, Butter's had been humming. It was like he was unaware of it, an ingrained reflex natural as breathing. It softened something in Stan, and he decided it was probably stupid to hold a grudge against one of the few people actually trying to make him feel like he had a place here in South Park.

Stan nudged Butters. "Doesn't your throat get sore?"

Butters looked ruffled to be interrupted, but he answered Stan's questions congenially. "Sometimes, but I'd rather my throat hurt than stop. It's one of my, uh, coping mechanisms I guess." He laughed lightly.

"That's understandable." Stan thought wistfully of his baseball bat, pure glistening silver as it smashed into undead faces. It was undoubtedly somewhere downstairs in another great pile of weapons. The thought panged him, but he decided not to bring it up, not so long as he was perceived as a threat by the people around him. Tweak seemed reluctant to trust, and Craig was naturally alienating.

He glanced sideways at the two, prodding at what little memory he had left of fourth grade. The only thing that came to his mind when he thought the name 'Craig Tucker' was  _dick_. Dick and a pan flute. Fuck if he knew why.

Tweak was easier. He was that spastic kid that never stopped moving, pissing off every other fourth grader with his waggling leg and uncontrollable outbursts. Back then he was a short, volatile boy with flyaway yellow hair and shabby clothes, like his parents didn't help him dress himself. Now, ten years later, he hardly seemed better off. A rumpled sweater the colour of wine hung off his wiry frame, loose threads poking through the cuffs. Scrappy brown logger's boots. Once upon a time Stan might have commented on the rather feminine black leggings clinging to his twiggy legs, but the weight of his recently acclaimed leather jacket reminded him of the scarcity of clothes in this world, and he held his tongue.

He watched them for a while, noting their body language. After being on his own, everything and everyone foreign was intensely interesting. Casually Craig draped an arm around the smaller blonde, eliciting mild surprise from Stan. He noted the way Tweak leaned into the touch, jittering a little less with the lengthy limb weighing down on him. It reminded him of two older, very familiar faces that he'd tried to scourge his memory of time and time again. But the distinct tenderness, the spark in the air was undoubtedly recognizable.

"Are you guys a couple?" The question jumped out unsolicited. Butters looked over, mouth dropped and utterly scandalized.

"Stan, you don't just ask people that!" said Butters in an utterly scandalized voice.

Stan furrowed his brow. "Don't you?"

"Well…I don't know!" exclaimed Butters, flustered. "It's been a while since we've had someone disrupt the etiquette of our group. It's weird how you don't, just, know things."

Stan shrugged. He was still curious.

Craig turned his dark eyes to Stan. "Yeah."

Stan waited, mildly uncomfortable when he realized Craig made no plans to elaborate. "How long have you guys been together?"

Now Craig looked over sharply, his straight, definite nose pointing at Stan like an accusing finger, eyes like coal. "Why do you want to know?"

The aggression of the question put Stan off, and he shrugged. "Curious, I guess? You don't need to answer."

"I won't."

"Good, fine," said Stan, pissed. "God, you must be fun at parties."

"Why did you want to keep him again?" asked Craig, looking at Tweak boredly.

"Because – _ng_ \- he's one of us. And god Craig, don't be a dick," scolded the unkept blonde.

Craig sighed, but shrugged off the retort. His expression turned sour when Tweak deftly removed the lanky arm from around his shoulders and walked to other side of the bitter brunette, sitting next to Stan.

Tweak offered Stan a lopsided grin. "Sorry about him, he's an asshole. And, uh…" he glanced downwards, picking furiously at his fingernails, "…sorry I thought you were, like, a murderer. You just never know these days!" He looked up at Stan suddenly, wild-eyed. With his pale blonde, near invisible brows elevated to the extreme, Tweak looked ready to burst from anxiety. "Everyone's out to kill one another! Even people you think you trust, and-and  _know_. It's so  _frustrating_. I really can't take it. Can't. Lies and guns, it's like that's all some people need!" His movements became more frantic as he wound himself up. Butters looked a bit sick, eyeing Tweak with something like fear, but fuck it if Stan knew why.

Butters tugged Stan's arm meekly. "Hey, uh, maybe I think there's something downstairs that I want you to-"

"Show me later," interrupted Stan. God, Butters could be annoying when he didn't shut up.

"And the  _killing_ , I mean, Jesus!" Tweak continued as though neither boy said anything. "Everyone's  _killing_  everybody, and, and  _stealing_  everything. It's like the whole world's out to get you!

Stan sighed heavily. "I hear you."

"And you have your friends, and if someone isn't your friend, they're your enemy. It's so fucked, everything's so fucked. Enemies right under your nose, and the others don't even know. Can't say anything, 'cause then they'll know you know, and that's when they  _get_  you. It's so  _frustrating_."

"Uh, is that why you didn't say anything back when everyone was voting?" asked Stan, trying to connect the disarraying dots of Tweak's vague speech patterns. It seemed an innocent enough question.

The blonde froze. He looked utterly perplexed. Beside him Craig tensed, black eyes gleaming.

"W-what do you mean?!"

"I dunno," said Stan, "You didn't seem real keen on talking back in the room. Y'know, when you guys were all deciding my fate. What the fuck happened? Cat got your tongue?" He laughed casually, but the noise dropped like a stone in water when he saw Craig. Glaring fiercely, the boy had such rage on his face that it caught Stan's voice in his throat. It was like staring down a great black bull, cleaving the ground with razor hoofs in a precedent to the charge.

Even the music faltered, and Stan realized Butters had been listening the whole time. He'd forgotten that the sensitive blonde had even been there for a moment, the melodies fading into the background like wind.

"That's kinda…I mean, Stan…" mumbled Butters timidly. "I think uh, maybe we should go…"

_SMACK_

"No!" exclaimed Tweak with such furious passion he smacked a spidery hand against the shingles. "You let me speak! I'm not a baby, I can talk to Stan!"

Butters paled. He stumbled for words, desperately backpedalling. "I never said you were, Tweak, I just-"

"NO!" screamed the boy abruptly, scrambling to his feet in a sudden emotional explosion. "YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"

He made to charge at Butters, fists balled in rage when Craig's arm snapped out and grabbed the blonde's shaking wrist. Tweak jolted back, thrown off the momentum of his advance, and clumsily fell over Craig's legs.

"LET GO YOU FUCKER!"

Craig merely looked at Stan, keeping the flailing boy locked in his arms. He clamped a large hand over Tweak's mouth, muffling the spitting shrieks of profanity.

Stan was at a loss for words. From zero to a hundred, just like that. His heart felt sick, he was so freaked out.

Craig stood up, dragging the struggling blonde with him. Without a word he made for the ladder, shifting his hold on Tweak to one arm while he grasped the top rung with the other. As he awkwardly descended, wincing off stray kicks and punches, he stared wordlessly at Stan. Like it was his fault.

Stan turned to Butters. "What the  _fuck_  is wrong with him?!" he demanded.

Butters looked uncomfortable. "Craig or Tweak?"

"Fuck, both of them! That scream was a good as a zombie magnet, why the fuck did he go off like that?!"

"Well…" slowly started Butters, "to be fair, he hasn't been quite that bad for a while…"

"That  _bad_?!"

"Okay, look!" said Butters with uncharacteristic finality. "I'll be the first to admit, Tweak's definitely got some baggage. Who doesn't?! He just gets stressed out, and that gets him angry, which stresses him out more 'cause he'll try to bottle it up, and it's just one vicious cycle till he explodes. That's his deal." Finished, Butter was breathing hard. His expression was one of defeat. "Is that good enough for you?"

A twinge of guilt fluttered in Stan's ribcage, but he refused to let Butter's make him feel as though  _he_ was in the wrong.

"Yeah, it is. At least we know  _why_ he's an uncontrollable human bomb. That's much better."

"The sarcasm isn't helpful, Stan. And you did provoke him."

"I asked him a question!"

"A private one," retorted Butters, softness returning to his voice. "He… he has trust issues. He thinks that…certain people in the group are a danger to him. For no reason. It's something the group's dealt with already. I don't feel it's my right to tell you. How would you feel if Craig asked you about your family, why you were alone?"

Stan's lip curled. "You stop right there."

"I will," conceded the blonde quickly. His gaze was tangible on Stan's skin, blue eyes deep with sympathy. It made Stan want to punch something. "I just want you to understand."

"It was you defending him that set him off in the first place." Stan flung the words.

"That doesn't matter, please Stan, just listen-"

A muffled  _bang_ peppered the air, silencing Butters. Stan straightened up. The sound tickled something funny. He tilted his head like a dog on a scent, intuition tingling in his gut.  _Something was wrong._  Cold sweat slicked the pits of his shirt when he saw the figures in the distance, no bigger than toy soldiers from the distance they were at.

A girl running at breakneck speed, a short, thick mass of blonde hair wailing behind her like a gale. Legs stretching expertly over the broken terrain, landing surely over rocks and weeds. Every few steps she whipped around and raised the rifle in her hands, letting off a few  _bangs_  at the rotting cluster of the undead hot on her tail.

They stumbled and shuffled like drunkards, stiff limbs sprawled out riotously in front of them. There were seven or eight of them, each a variation of oozing, bloated grotesqueness. A few trundled on their dead, rotting feet. But others were fresher. One flailed, sprinting with an uneven gait towards the living girl. From Stan's vantage point, it looked as though the distance between the two was closing.

"Oh  _shit"_

Stan barely heard Butters. His heart was pounding. He couldn't breathe. Without thought he dashed to the edge of the roof and jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, finally some gruesome zombie action! Until now it's been ten juicy chapters of character development. I blame the terrain, all the zombies from South Park stopped being even remotely terrifying about four years ago.


	11. Chapter 11

Years of surviving in trees had taught Stan how to fall. He let his knees collapse beneath him, rolling into the soft dirt and absorbing the impact of the fall in his shoulder blade. It jarred through him, but in a hasty breath he was up on his feet. As long as his legs were good to run, he had a chance. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was scarcely anything to the adrenaline burning in his blood.

He looked around, eyes catching the rusted edges of a wooden garden rake resting against the convenience store. Snatching it, he bolted towards the chaos.

Bebe was like lightning, fear electric in her face. She caught sight of Stan and they locked eyes. Stan breathed, willing himself to go faster. The ground beat against his feet, fast as his heart. The distance was closing. He could see Bebe's eyes, lashes, pupils shrunk with fear…

And then she blew past him, struggling with her own momentum. Stan kept going, the undead sprinter closing in, roaring with shredded vocal chords. The sound grated against Stan's ears like rusty tin. He kept going until he could smell the rotting flesh peeling from the zombie's skull. Swinging the rake out from behind him, Stan leaned his weight onto his front foot and gripped with both hands.

Like a pro, he swung. He caught the runner right in the head, snapping the weak metal of the rake off in its ghastly cranium. It stumbled violently to the side, clawing angrily as it fell to the ground. Without hesitation Stan pounced upon it, driving the broken end of the wooden handle through the soft opening of the zombie's eye socket. It gurgled black liquid, then sagged inanimately.

A shadow crossed over Stan and he scrambled backwards just as another undead thrust itself towards him, screaming inhumanely. It clasped a clammy hand around his ankle, then-

**_BANG_ **

The gunshot exploded in Stan's eardrums. The zombie's head exploded like inky fireworks, splattering against Stan's face. Breathing hard, Stan looked up.

Bebe's rifle was held surely, her face contorted in focus. Her face was sheened with sweat, stray hairs sticking to her forehead. She glanced at Stan, then refocused, eyes narrowing.

**_BANG_ **

**_BANG_ **

Then her finger clicked against the trigger, the shallow ticks signing an empty barrel. With a scream of frustration she smacked the butt of the rifle against one of the still charging zombies. Stan thanked whatever gods that might be listening that all the quick ones were put down, and the shufflers were still a good few steps away.

Stan fumbled his fingers around the stiffening grasp of the zombie. Rigamortis was setting in, fastening the hold like plaster around Stan's leg. Furiously he dug his nails into the hand, peeling through bloody tissue. Even when he scraped bone, the dead hand clenched stubbornly. He could hear Bebe fighting ahead of him, the thudding of metal slamming into bodies punctuated by high-pitched grunts of effort.

Then with a sudden gust, a dark figure blew past him. Clad in a navy jean jacket and black pants, Craig looked like a greaser straight out of the seventies as he thrust his shovel into a groaner's neck. Pushing down, he popped the head clean off, then pivoted and hit the last zombie with the flat end of the shovel head. It fell to the ground, mouth agape with jagged teeth, still clawing the air. Until the sole of Craig's steel-toe boot crushed through the zombie's skull.

Bebe was bent over, breathing hard. "They came….from the south…there was a…a camp." Straightening up, she wiped her forehead with the bottom of her shirt. Her face was flushed and red as her lips. "A fuck load of supplies, tents, cans…but moaners all over. Couldn't pull the trigger, otherwise they'd have been on top of me in a second. We gotta tell Kyle."

Craig nodded blankly. He glanced at Stan, eyes trailing to where the undead hand clamped him. With the barest hint of a self-satisfied smirk toying on his lips, so small Stan wondered if it was merely a projection of his own emotions, Craig regripped his shovel and simply walked back to the store.

Bebe laughed. "Christ, what the fuck did you do to Tweak?" She knelt down and pulled out a pocket knife, wedging the blade between Stan's calf and the undead fingers. With a  _crunch_ she bend the fingers back, sticking out unnaturally from the rotting palm. Immediately Stan withdrew his leg with a shudder. He rubbed over his leg a few good times, trying to shake the clammy, hair-raising feel of a moaner wrapping its hungry hand around his living, blood flushed leg.

"Fuck if I know, the kid's a time bomb," muttered Stan sorely. "Besides, Butter's provoked him."

Bebe smirked. "Leo. Really kid, that's the best you've got? God, you're stupid."

"Fuck you," retorted Stan. "You weren't there, you don't know shit. Butters went off about how fragile Tweak  _apparently_  is, and that got Tweak pissed. Then he started freaking."

"Yeah, okay." Bebe snorted and turned around. "And you didn't open your big mouth at all. Shit, I've known you all of two hours and I can tell you've got a permanent home for that foot in your mouth."

Before Stan could fling back a retort, she slapped him harshly on the back. "But hey, you're a fucking decent zombie slayer. I'll give you that." And she walked away.

Wincing, Stan rolled his shoulder around in its socket. It still ached from the impact of the ground, and Bebe's show of "affection" did not do anything to alleviate the pain. The zombie corpses lay scattered like litter over the ground, blackening and smelling of putrid rot. Nothing salvageable, they all wore raggedy summer clothes stained with one bodily fluid or another.

He walked back to the house, and nearly everyone was outside waiting for him.

Kyle was fuming, Stan could tell. His red curls bobbed as he paced back and forth in front of the house, visible as Stan grew closer. Craig was standing straight up, motionless as a statue. Leaning casually against the house was Bebe, combing fingers through her short frizz of blonde hair. It looked as though the other scavengers were back too. The red-haired girl chewed a fingernail nervously. Cartman was engaged in aggressive conversation with the handsome boy whom Stan still could not place. Squinting, Stan could see that Tweak was not counted amongst the group outside. Ike neither.

Seeing Stan approaching, Kyle stood still. It was eerie, the way his bright green eyes fixated on Stan as he approached. They crackled with a hidden fire, like a dragon gazing upon a glowing emerald. They struck fear in Stan, until he shook himself.  _He's a person, just like you. Just a person._

"So," began Kyle, calm and slow. Cartman and the boy fell silent. "Zombies. Anyone wanna tell me why I come back to a herd of zombies surrounding the shelter?"

There was a tense silence. Stan didn't dare raise his voice.

Bebe reluctantly stepped forward. "I was scouting, like you told me to do. Went down the river, followed it into the forest, and found a campsite. There was a shitload of supplies…but a fuckton of groaners to match. Some were old, but two were pretty ripe. I mean ripe." She paused to wrinkle her perky nose. "So I was gonna back out and report back right away, see if we could get a party to raid the place…and then I heard Tweak losing his shit a hundred goddamn miles away. Well, the fucking groaners did too, when they caught wind of human shrieking. So I ran, which was stupid, cause that just made them chase me. Managed to shake off most of them, believe me, the seven out there aren't half of what was roaming around that camp."

Eyes bulging at Bebe, Cartman looked livid. "Are we safe?! How close are they?"

"About a mile, mile and a half?"

"Fuck! Fucking fuck!" Furiously, Cartmen crossed to Stan until spit was flying in the latter's face. "If you fucking screwed us over, you're  _dead_! You hear me?!"

Stan's head was on fire. "Excuse me,  _dipshit_ , but in case you didn't notice, I wasn't the one screaming my goddamn lungs out on the fucking rooftop!" He spun around, searching frantically for sympathetic faces. "I mean, is that normal? Has he always been so…so…"

"Yeah," said Craig heatedly. It was the most passion Stan had seen out of him. "He ran out of antipsychotics about three years back. So we deal."

" _Why?!_ " asked Stan, exasperated. "Whatever his deal is, it's putting you all at risk! You can't be throwing goddamn tantrums with zombies around, that's how you die!"

"What exactly are you suggesting?" challenged Craig through clenched teeth.

Laughing gleefully, Cartman sneered at Stan. "He wants us put him down! See? You see?! This is what happens. You let someone into the group, and turns out they're a fucking  _murderer_."

"Shut up, Cartman." Kyle held up a hand. He looked at Stan straight, expressionless. "It was Leopold that took you up to the roof, right?"

The name threw Stan for a moment, but he nodded. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked. There was a definite shift in the energy of the group when Kyle spoke.

"Well, Leo? Did you talk to him about Tweak? Was he aware of Tweak's extreme paranoia and delusional cognitions?"

Head bowed, Butters scratched the back of his ear. His voice was higher than a child's when he answered. "…no…I mean, I told him Tweak could be over-reactive and-"

"Clearly," interrupted Kyle, "you didn't do a sufficient job." He had no need to raise his voice; the threatening calmness pressing in his tone carried the words over Butters'. "And you see the consequences?"

"I-I mean, Tweak was getting pretty wound up and-"

"Answer the question, Leopold. Do you understand the consequences?"

Butters was stifling back tears. "Y-yes. Y-you all…I could have k-k-ki-" He could not say the word, and was reduced to a quivering mess of empty gasps.

"I'm not angry at you," said Kyle matter-of-factly, "Not because it was a mistake. But because me being angry will never hurt you as much as the real-life consequences of screwing up will. Understand?"

Lip quivering, Butters nodded. He folded his hands in front of him and closed his eyes, scrunching the wetness away.

"And Stan," continued Kyle, "You want to know why we keep Tweak around, right?"

Nodding shamefacedly, Stan felt like an asshole. "I didn't mean to sound like a dick. It's just, how has he survived all this time? With outbursts like that? How much do you guys go through to keep zombies away when he loses his shit?"

Kyle was wordless, pursing his lips as though a secret toyed on the tip of his tongue. He turned to the group. "Who wants to tell him?"

Cartman stepped forward, giving Stan a look like  _well aren't you about to look like an idiot_. He folded his thick arms in front of him, straightening up to his full height to sneer down his nose at Stan.

"Well," he said slowly, savouring the power trip. "As anyone with half a functioning brain could figure, Tweak is a little different than the rest of us. Chemical imbalances, hormonal mutations, I won't bore you with all the details. You've seen him, his spastic outbursts that undoubtedly should have shortened his lifespan considerably, considering the nature of our undead friends. That is-"

"Get the fuck on with it," interjected Bebe, rolling her eyes.

"Point being," said Cartman loudly, ignoring the comment. "It's not just the living that take Tweak's obvious mental deformities into account-"

"You shut the fuck up," hissed Craig menacingly. "You stupid. Ugly. Bastard."

Looking a tad paler, Cartman cleared his throat and continued. "The dead notice it too. Or rather, they don't."

Stan blinked, stumped. "What? What's your fucking point?"

" _They can't smell him."_

The words submerged Stan into a whole new world. He blinked through the murky waters. "Wh-what do you mean they can't smell him?"

Cartman shrugged. "Exactly that. Jesus, you really are some kind of idiot."

"What he means," said Red, fiddling her long, auburn hair into a braid, "is that zombies have two ways of tracking humans. Sound and scent. It's the last one that's dangerous, 'cause you can be quiet as a church mouse and they'll still find you. We're still not sure if it's the blood, sweat, pheromones, or just plain human  _fear_  that they detect, but Tweak doesn't have it." She looked at him seriously. "They just…shuffle around him."

 _No fucking way_. Stan stumbled over his own thoughts, forming soundless words with his lips. "But that, I mean…" he blinked, flustered. " _Holy shit._ "

"Holy shit indeed."

"Shut up, Cartman," chastised Red, the natural sweetness of her voice ruining the meanness of the words.

"How did you find this out?" demanded Stan.

Kyle waved a hand dismissively. "Anyone who isn't on kitchen duty can fill him in. Leopold, Cartman, Craig, get going. We're falling behind schedule."

Craig slunk off without a word. Grin sliding off his face, Cartman looked less amused as Kyle resumed control. He shot Stan one last shit-eating grin before following the lanky greaser into the shelter, carefully angling his face away from Kyle's stern gaze. Butters sniffled, rubbing suspiciously red eyes on the cuff of his shirt.

Stan crossed his arms and waited. Kyle look him in the eyes, nodded, and left with the others. It was annoying, but Stan also felt a small swell of pride at the gesture. Kyle could have just walked away, he supposed, even ordered Stan to drop the subject. But though his gaze was often stern and authoritative, there was a tangible respect to the way Kyle addressed Stan. Like they were equals, like Stan wasn't some outsider that had been absent for the last decade. Stan appreciated it.

Only Red, Bebe, and the other boy were left. The way the blonde boy looked at him filled Stan with a flutter of apprehension. His head was tilted, upturned eyes framed with dramatic, arching eyebrows giving him an air of mischief. Trying to be subtle about it, Stan scrutinized the boy yet again for any speck of memory. He guessed his confusion was palpable on his face; both girls stopped talking and gave him funny looks. The blonde boy raised his eyebrows.

Red interjected sweetly in the growing silence, to Stan's appreciation. "I think I've got something to finish up inside." She glanced at Bebe, raising a telling brow. "C'mon, go with me."

Huffing dramatically, Bebe rolled her eyes and followed suit. "Today's been shit anyways," she said to the red-head. "I'm going to pass out on my bed, and God Almighty help the soul who tries to wake me."

Before she disappeared behind the door, Bebe snapped her fingers at Stan. "Don't think you're out of the woods with me yet, kiddo," she said, toying a smile, "but you've got damn good reflexes."

Then the door slammed, resounding in the silence between Stan and the boy. Stan looked and him, and sighed.

"Who are you?"

The boy's mouth opened in slight disbelief.

"Really?"

"Sorry dude, nothing personal. I just can't put a name to you. Were we, uh, in fourth grade together?"

The boy laughed. Scratching the back of his scruffy, golden hair, he smiled at Stan crookedly. "Take a guess."

"Aw, shit dude, don't make me do that."

"Why not?"

"I already feel like an asshole, c'mon."

"Humour me."

"I can't," admitted Stan, "I spent the last ten years of my life trying to forget the first ten. Like I said, it's nothing personal."

The boy's cajoling grin slid from his face. "Oh. Shit. I should have called that…" he murmured dolefully. He cleared his throat, regaining the cheeky composure that set naturally in his features. "But if you're going by my face, you're gonna have a hell of a time getting my name, I'll tell ya that."

Stan peered at him, examining every inch of his faced with a deliberate carefulness. It frustrated him, because every time he returned to the boy's eyes, there was nothing.

"Uh…I'm sorry." Stan shook his head ruefully. "Got nothing."

The boy's smile stretched wanly, unnaturally, and his throat bobbed like he was swallowing bitter disappointment. When he spoke, the words were somewhat peeved. "What the fuck, man?" he asked. "You remembered Kyle and Cartman. Sure, yeah. That's how it goes."

"Well, I'm sorry!" said Stan angrily. "I'm sorry I don't remember the face of every single fucker that ever lived here ten years ago. I mean, Christ, of course I'm going to remember Kyle and Cartman! They were my best friends. There was only one other kid that I-"

And Stan stopped, realizing the amazingly obvious truth right that had waited patiently under his nose. Suddenly it made sense, all of it. He gaped at the boy, speechless both in shock and anger at his own stupidity.

"Oh, no _way_.  _Shit!_ "

Kenny McCormick laughed, his roguish features charmingly scrunched. "There it is."

Slack-jawed, Stan felt like an idiot. As a child Kenny had been unassuming and quiet, his face usually sheathed in swaths of clothing. The climate of South Park ranged from brisk to freezing, so it was more common to see Kenny's orange hood over his head than his actual face.

Now his light t-shirt fluttered gently in the breeze, exposing his neck and arms. His forearm was dotted with beauty marks, a constellation Stan had never seen on Kenny the child. His skin glowed golden, kissed hours beneath the sun. The seamless colour hinted at many days gone shirtless, which Stan thought was both careless and dangerously stupid. Kenny didn't seem stupid. He had eyes like a wolf, murky greenish blue and stunning. A queer feeling overtook Stan like worms in his gut when he looked into them.

"Kenny…" said Stan softly. "I…I'm so sorry man."

Kenny looked away. "It's alright."

Stan was awash with guilt. He didn't know what to say, but he felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and grip Kenny's shoulder. His palm tingled, but he kept his arms to himself.

"You wanna hear about Tweak, right?" said Kenny abruptly.

"Oh, uh, yeah." Anything to diffuse this awkwardness.

"'bout seven years back, zombies were everywhere. Still fresh enough to move around, and there were enough people passing through to get bitten. We used to hide out in the church 'cause it had a second floor for the bell. Y'know, zombies don't do stairs well. One day, a bunch of them got into the church and we all ran upstairs. There were more of us back then, and that bell tower's pretty small. We were all squished up there, but people were freaking out and, somehow, Tweak got pushed off.

He fell clean off the roof and hit his head, got knocked out. We all heard the thud, it was horrible. Watching him just…lying there, motionless. But there weren't many walkers around where he landed, they were all on the other side where Clyde had…" Kenny trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Anyways, some of the groaners heard the noise and changed direction. They got close, and this one really big one walked right up to him. I looked away 'cause, well, I didn't want to see Tweak's guts getting yanked out of him by some dead dick. But then people were gasping, and saying "no way" and shit like that, so I looked… and it was crazy. The zombies were just shuffling around him. One even tripped right over him, but it just kept dragging itself till it was upright and kept walking. Funniest shit I've seen in my life." Kenny snorted at the memory, his eyes off in the distance.

"None of us knew what to do, so we stayed in the bell tower. Eventually Tweak started to get up, and when he realized where he was I thought he was gonna piss himself. But then Kyle shouted at him to keep quiet, stay put and keep quiet. Tweak was shaking like a heroin addict, luckily he had enough sense to listen to Kyle and kept his mouth shut. He just sat there, trembling, while all these cold dead bodies bumped past him. Can't imagine how he did it.

That happened in the morning, and by the time the zombie's had cleared out the sun was setting. He got up and had this  _look_  in his eyes, like he was staring a thousand miles away. Walked kinda funny, I mean, he was standing a  _long ass_  time. But after that, it was nothing but questions when he got back to the bell tower. Like he knew what he was doing, fucking right…"

After listening to the story, Stan was amazed. "But he didn't. It just…happened." He thought of Tweak, even younger and scrawnier at thirteen, struggling to stay still amidst a sea of the undead. It was unimaginable.

"That's why he's still around."

"Yeah," confirmed Kenny, "He'll probably be the one to lead the raid into that abandoned camp. Grab the supplies, in and out, like it's nobody's business."

"That's…" Stan was stunned. The advantages of such a gift rapidly fired through his head, and he felt a burning jealousy towards Tweak. The boy probably had no clue what  _power_ he had, what an incredible advantage he had been so randomly blessed with. Stan thought back to the moments in his past where, had he been like Tweak, things would have gone much differently.

"Is, is there any way to, like, transfer it?" he demanded eagerly. "Like if someone wore his clothes or something?"

"Uh, kinda." There was a knowing smirk on Kenny's face. "Not his clothes, exactly, we tried that, but…there's a  _process_ … and it's really only available to Craig."

Stan's face heated. "O-oh."

"The effect only lasts like ten minutes though, then Craig's stench takes over again and the zombie's smell him."

 _Damn_ , Stan cursed inwardly. Not that he'd have been welcome to the idea of sexual intercourse with Tweak otherwise. It was just easier to eliminate the option now that the results were fleeting.

Kenny laughed. "Shit dude, you look so disappointed."

"I'm not!" protested Stan immediately, which incurred another round of riotous laughter from Kenny. Astoundingly, Stan found himself laughing too. He hit the blonde's arm with a friendly punch. "Shut your face!"

"Tweak's taken, man! I don't know what else to tell you."

"Fuck off!" Stan threw another punch.

Kenny guarded himself with his forearms, flinching from the harmless hits. "Defensive much? It's okay, Tweak's a bombshell. The way he screams his hiccups gives me chills."

"Oh right, i'll give  _you_  chills," retorted Stan, falling easily into the typical banter of teenage boys. It felt good, natural. For the first time in a long time he wasn't calculating every step, every word, worrying constantly that one wrong move could be fatal. Words rolled off his tongue smooth as syrup, and when Kenny cracked up in response, it gave Stan a feeling of elation. He was floating on clouds.

Eventually Bebe came outside. "Supper's ready," she informed them, picking at the fresh bandaging wrapped around her bicep. There were already big, splotchy red stains steeping through the white material, but she didn't so much as wince when her fingers brushed over the spot.

Kenny pat Stan on the back in a friendly way, and led him in. "Anything good?"

Bebe snorted. "If there's anything at all, I'd eat it."

"That's reassuring," said Stan rather saucily.

The comment elicited another tickled grin from Kenny. Blonde curls bobbing, Bebe shook her head, unimpressed. "C'mon, losers. I'm fucking starved."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a mess I forgot to upload this chapter too I don't know what happened oh my god

Kyle was fuming, Stan could tell. His red curls bobbed as he paced back and forth in front of the house, visible as Stan grew closer. Craig was standing straight up, motionless as a statue. Leaning casually against the house was Bebe, combing fingers through her short frizz of blonde hair. It looked as though the other scavengers were back too. The red-haired girl chewed a fingernail nervously. Cartman was engaged in aggressive conversation with the handsome boy whom Stan still could not place. Squinting, Stan could see that Tweak was not counted amongst the group outside. Ike neither.

Seeing Stan approaching, Kyle stood still. It was eerie, the way his bright green eyes fixated on Stan as he approached. They crackled with a hidden fire, like a dragon gazing upon a glowing emerald. They struck fear in Stan, until he shook himself. _He's a person, just like you. Just a person._

"So," began Kyle, calm and slow. Cartman and the boy fell silent. "Zombies. Anyone wanna tell me why I come back to a herd of zombies surrounding the shelter?"

There was a tense silence. Stan didn't dare raise his voice.

Bebe reluctantly stepped forward. "I was scouting, like you told me to do. Went down the river, followed it into the forest, and found a campsite. There was a shitload of supplies…but a fuckton of groaners to match. Some were old, but two were pretty ripe. I mean ripe." She paused to wrinkle her perky nose. "So I was gonna back out and report back right away, see if we could get a party to raid the place…and then I heard Tweak losing his shit a hundred goddamn miles away. Well, the fucking groaners did too, when they caught wind of human shrieking. So I ran, which was stupid, cause that just made them chase me. Managed to shake off most of them, believe me, the seven out there aren't half of what was roaming around that camp."

Eyes bulging at Bebe, Cartman looked livid. "Are we safe?! How close are they?"

"About a mile, mile and a half?"

"Fuck! Fucking fuck!" Furiously, Cartmen crossed to Stan until spit was flying in the latter's face. "If you fucking screwed us over, you're _dead_! You hear me?!"

Stan's head was on fire. "Excuse me, _dipshit_ , but in case you didn't notice, I wasn't the one screaming my goddamn lungs out on the fucking rooftop!" He spun around, searching frantically for sympathetic faces. "I mean, is that normal? Has he always been so…so…"

"Yeah," said Craig heatedly. It was the most passion Stan had seen out of him. "He ran out of antipsychotics about three years back. So we deal."

" _Why?!_ " asked Stan, exasperated. "Whatever his deal is, it's putting you all at risk! You can't be throwing goddamn tantrums with zombies around, that's how you die!"

"What exactly are you suggesting?" challenged Craig through clenched teeth.

Laughing gleefully, Cartman sneered at Stan. "He wants us put him down! See? You see?! This is what happens. You let someone into the group, and turns out they're a fucking _murderer_."

"Shut up, Cartman." Kyle held up a hand. He looked at Stan straight, expressionless. "It was Leopold that took you up to the roof, right?"

The name threw Stan for a moment, but he nodded. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked. There was a definite shift in the energy of the group when Kyle spoke.

"Well, Leo? Did you talk to him about Tweak? Was he aware of Tweak's extreme paranoia and delusional cognitions?"

Head bowed, Butters scratched the back of his ear. His voice was higher than a child's when he answered. "…no…I mean, I told him Tweak could be over-reactive and-"

"Clearly," interrupted Kyle, "you didn't do a sufficient job." He had no need to raise his voice; the threatening calmness pressing in his tone carried the words over Butters'. "And you see the consequences?"

"I-I mean, Tweak was getting pretty wound up and-"

"Answer the question, Leopold. Do you understand the consequences?"

Butters was stifling back tears. "Y-yes. Y-you all…I could have k-k-ki-" He could not say the word, and was reduced to a quivering mess of empty gasps.

"I'm not angry at you," said Kyle matter-of-factly, "Not because it was a mistake. But because me being angry will never hurt you as much as the real-life consequences of screwing up will. Understand?"

Lip quivering, Butters nodded. He folded his hands in front of him and closed his eyes, scrunching the wetness away.

"And Stan," continued Kyle, "You want to know why we keep Tweak around, right?"

Nodding shamefacedly, Stan felt like an asshole. "I didn't mean to sound like a dick. It's just, how has he survived all this time? With outbursts like that? How much do you guys go through to keep zombies away when he loses his shit?"

Kyle was wordless, pursing his lips as though a secret toyed on the tip of his tongue. He turned to the group. "Who wants to tell him?"

Cartman stepped forward, giving Stan a look like _well aren't you about to look like an idiot_. He folded his thick arms in front of him, straightening up to his full height to sneer down his nose at Stan.

"Well," he said slowly, savouring the power trip. "As anyone with half a functioning brain could figure, Tweak is a little different than the rest of us. Chemical imbalances, hormonal mutations, I won't bore you with all the details. You've seen him, his spastic outbursts that undoubtedly should have shortened his lifespan considerably, considering the nature of our undead friends. That is-"

"Get the fuck on with it," interjected Bebe, rolling her eyes.

"Point being," said Cartman loudly, ignoring the comment. "It's not just the living that take Tweak's obvious mental deformities into account-"

"You shut the fuck up," hissed Craig menacingly. "You stupid. Ugly. Bastard."

Looking a tad paler, Cartman cleared his throat and continued. "The dead notice it too. Or rather, they don't."

Stan blinked, stumped. "What? What's your fucking point?"

" _They can't smell him."_

The words submerged Stan into a whole new world. He blinked through the murky waters. "Wh-what do you mean they can't smell him?"

Cartman shrugged. "Exactly that. Jesus, you really are some kind of idiot."

"What he means," said Red, fiddling her long, auburn hair into a braid, "is that zombies have two ways of tracking humans. Sound and scent. It's the last one that's dangerous, 'cause you can be quiet as a church mouse and they'll still find you. We're still not sure if it's the blood, sweat, pheromones, or just plain human _fear_ that they detect, but Tweak doesn't have it." She looked at him seriously. "They just…shuffle around him."

 _No fucking way_. Stan stumbled over his own thoughts, forming soundless words with his lips. "But that, I mean…" he blinked, flustered. " _Holy shit._ "

"Holy shit indeed."

"Shut up, Cartman," chastised Red, the natural sweetness of her voice ruining the meanness of the words.

"How did you find this out?" demanded Stan.

Kyle waved a hand dismissively. "Anyone who isn't on kitchen duty can fill him in. Leopold, Cartman, Craig, get going. We're falling behind schedule."

Craig slunk off without a word. Grin sliding off his face, Cartman looked less amused as Kyle resumed control. He shot Stan one last shit-eating grin before following the lanky greaser into the shelter, carefully angling his face away from Kyle's stern gaze. Butters sniffled, rubbing suspiciously red eyes on the cuff of his shirt.

Stan crossed his arms and waited. Kyle look him in the eyes, nodded, and left with the others. It was annoying, but Stan also felt a small swell of pride at the gesture. Kyle could have just walked away, he supposed, even ordered Stan to drop the subject. But though his gaze was often stern and authoritative, there was a tangible respect to the way Kyle addressed Stan. Like they were equals, like Stan wasn't some outsider that had been absent for the last decade. Stan appreciated it.

Only Red, Bebe, and the other boy were left. The way the blonde boy looked at him filled Stan with a flutter of apprehension. His head was tilted, upturned eyes framed with dramatic, arching eyebrows giving him an air of mischief. Trying to be subtle about it, Stan scrutinized the boy yet again for any speck of memory. He guessed his confusion was palpable on his face; both girls stopped talking and gave him funny looks. The blonde boy raised his eyebrows.

Red interjected sweetly in the growing silence, to Stan's appreciation. "I think I've got something to finish up inside." She glanced at Bebe, raising a telling brow. "C'mon, go with me."

Huffing dramatically, Bebe rolled her eyes and followed suit. "Today's been shit anyways," she said to the red-head. "I'm going to pass out on my bed, and God Almighty help the soul who tries to wake me."

Before she disappeared behind the door, Bebe snapped her fingers at Stan. "Don't think you're out of the woods with me yet, kiddo," she said, toying a smile, "but you've got damn good reflexes."

Then the door slammed, resounding in the silence between Stan and the boy. Stan looked and him, and sighed.

"Who are you?"

The boy's mouth opened in slight disbelief.

"Really?"

"Sorry dude, nothing personal. I just can't put a name to you. Were we, uh, in fourth grade together?"

The boy laughed. Scratching the back of his scruffy, golden hair, he smiled at Stan crookedly. "Take a guess."

"Aw, shit dude, don't make me do that."

"Why not?"

"I already feel like an asshole, c'mon."

"Humour me."

"I can't," admitted Stan, "I spent the last ten years of my life trying to forget the first ten. Like I said, it's nothing personal."

The boy's cajoling grin slid from his face. "Oh. Shit. I should have called that…" he murmured dolefully. He cleared his throat, regaining the cheeky composure that set naturally in his features. "But if you're going by my face, you're gonna have a hell of a time getting my name, I'll tell ya that."

Stan peered at him, examining every inch of his faced with a deliberate carefulness. It frustrated him, because every time he returned to the boy's eyes, there was nothing.

"Uh…I'm sorry." Stan shook his head ruefully. "Got nothing."

The boy's smile stretched wanly, unnaturally, and his throat bobbed like he was swallowing bitter disappointment. When he spoke, the words were somewhat peeved. "What the fuck, man?" he asked. "You remembered Kyle and Cartman. Sure, yeah. That's how it goes."

"Well, I'm sorry!" said Stan angrily. "I'm sorry I don't remember the face of every single fucker that ever lived here ten years ago. I mean, Christ, of course I'm going to remember Kyle and Cartman! They were my best friends. There was only one other kid that I-"

And Stan stopped, realizing the amazingly obvious truth right that had waited patiently under his nose. Suddenly it made sense, all of it. He gaped at the boy, speechless both in shock and anger at his own stupidity.

"Oh, no _way_. _Shit!_ "

Kenny McCormick laughed, his roguish features charmingly scrunched. "There it is."

Slack-jawed, Stan felt like an idiot. As a child Kenny had been unassuming and quiet, his face usually sheathed in swaths of clothing. The climate of South Park ranged from brisk to freezing, so it was more common to see Kenny's orange hood over his head than his actual face.

Now his light t-shirt fluttered gently in the breeze, exposing his neck and arms. His forearm was dotted with beauty marks, a constellation Stan had never seen on Kenny the child. His skin glowed golden, kissed hours beneath the sun. The seamless colour hinted at many days gone shirtless, which Stan thought was both careless and dangerously stupid. Kenny didn't seem stupid. He had eyes like a wolf, murky greenish blue and stunning. A queer feeling overtook Stan like worms in his gut when he looked into them.

"Kenny…" said Stan softly. "I…I'm so sorry man."

Kenny looked away. "It's alright."

Stan was awash with guilt. He didn't know what to say, but he felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and grip Kenny's shoulder. His palm tingled, but he kept his arms to himself.

"You wanna hear about Tweak, right?" said Kenny abruptly.

"Oh, uh, yeah." Anything to diffuse this awkwardness.

"'bout seven years back, zombies were everywhere. Still fresh enough to move around, and there were enough people passing through to get bitten. We used to hide out in the church 'cause it had a second floor for the bell. Y'know, zombies don't do stairs well. One day, a bunch of them got into the church and we all ran upstairs. There were more of us back then, and that bell tower's pretty small. We were all squished up there, but people were freaking out and, somehow, Tweak got pushed off.

He fell clean off the roof and hit his head, got knocked out. We all heard the thud, it was horrible. Watching him just…lying there, motionless. But there weren't many walkers around where he landed, they were all on the other side where Clyde had…" Kenny trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Anyways, some of the groaners heard the noise and changed direction. They got close, and this one really big one walked right up to him. I looked away 'cause, well, I didn't want to see Tweak's guts getting yanked out of him by some dead dick. But then people were gasping, and saying "no way" and shit like that, so I looked… and it was crazy. The zombies were just shuffling around him. One even tripped right over him, but it just kept dragging itself till it was upright and kept walking. Funniest shit I've seen in my life." Kenny snorted at the memory, his eyes off in the distance.

"None of us knew what to do, so we stayed in the bell tower. Eventually Tweak started to get up, and when he realized where he was I thought he was gonna piss himself. But then Kyle shouted at him to keep quiet, stay put and keep quiet. Tweak was shaking like a heroin addict, luckily he had enough sense to listen to Kyle and kept his mouth shut. He just sat there, trembling, while all these cold dead bodies bumped past him. Can't imagine how he did it.

That happened in the morning, and by the time the zombie's had cleared out the sun was setting. He got up and had this _look_ in his eyes, like he was staring a thousand miles away. Walked kinda funny, I mean, he was standing a _long ass_ time. But after that, it was nothing but questions when he got back to the bell tower. Like he knew what he was doing, fucking right…"

After listening to the story, Stan was amazed. "But he didn't. It just…happened." He thought of Tweak, even younger and scrawnier at thirteen, struggling to stay still amidst a sea of the undead. It was unimaginable.

"That's why he's still around."

"Yeah," confirmed Kenny, "He'll probably be the one to lead the raid into that abandoned camp. Grab the supplies, in and out, like it's nobody's business."

"That's…" Stan was stunned. The advantages of such a gift rapidly fired through his head, and he felt a burning jealousy towards Tweak. The boy probably had no clue what _power_ he had, what an incredible advantage he had been so randomly blessed with. Stan thought back to the moments in his past where, had he been like Tweak, things would have gone much differently.

"Is, is there any way to, like, transfer it?" he demanded eagerly. "Like if someone wore his clothes or something?"

"Uh, kinda." There was a knowing smirk on Kenny's face. "Not his clothes, exactly, we tried that, but…there's a _process_ … and it's really only available to Craig."

Stan's face heated. "O-oh."

"The effect only lasts like ten minutes though, then Craig's stench takes over again and the zombie's smell him."

 _Damn_ , Stan cursed inwardly. Not that he'd have been welcome to the idea of sexual intercourse with Tweak otherwise. It was just easier to eliminate the option now that the results were fleeting.

Kenny laughed. "Shit dude, you look so disappointed."

"I'm not!" protested Stan immediately, which incurred another round of riotous laughter from Kenny. Astoundingly, Stan found himself laughing too. He hit the blonde's arm with a friendly punch. "Shut your face!"

"Tweak's taken, man! I don't know what else to tell you."

"Fuck off!" Stan threw another punch.

Kenny guarded himself with his forearms, flinching from the harmless hits. "Defensive much? It's okay, Tweak's a bombshell. The way he screams his hiccups gives me chills."

"Oh right, i'll give _you_ chills," retorted Stan, falling easily into the typical banter of teenage boys. It felt good, natural. For the first time in a long time he wasn't calculating every step, every word, worrying constantly that one wrong move could be fatal. Words rolled off his tongue smooth as syrup, and when Kenny cracked up in response, it gave Stan a feeling of elation. He was floating on clouds.

Eventually Bebe came outside. "Supper's ready," she informed them, picking at the fresh bandaging wrapped around her bicep. There were already big, splotchy red stains steeping through the white material, but she didn't so much as wince when her fingers brushed over the spot.

Kenny pat Stan on the back in a friendly way, and led him in. "Anything good?"

Bebe snorted. "If there's anything at all, I'd eat it."

"That's reassuring," said Stan rather saucily.

The comment elicited another tickled grin from Kenny. Blonde curls bobbing, Bebe shook her head, unimpressed. "C'mon, losers. I'm fucking starved."


	13. Chapter 13

Even in the dark, it was easy for Stan to manoeuvre his way to the outskirts of town. The cool night touched his flesh, raising the fine hairs on his neck. He clutched the gun closer to his chest, an object of security. Still, he yearned for his baseball bat. He wondered where it was. That would be the next issue to resolve, after this night was over.

When he entered amongst the ragged buildings Stan's senses went hyperactive. Shadows flickered in the pale moonlight, taloned hands and jagged teeth. They didn't scare Stan. These shadows appeared so many times in his past, flooded in his memory. In the past when he didn't have shelter it was move or be killed, especially in the night. The crunching leaves were traitorous, his own shallow breathing the enemy in the dead silence. The whole world was out to get him; that lesson had been thrust upon him from a very young age. Couldn't trust a branch to hold you, a stone to protect you, a tent to hide you.

A person to love you. Even help you.

_He was thirteen, growing pains shooting through his limbs like splints of bamboo. Backpacking through the country, headed south where the winter nights would not bite and peel his flesh. Maybe Florida. He'd always wanted to go to Disney World._

_Prairie after prairie, he passed "Welcome to Kansas". Dark figures dotting on the horizon, moaning and devouring the carcasses of cows. He ignored them. Tried to._

_Walked to the wooden schoolhouse, old and abandoned. Raised a pale fist, rapped the door. No answer, so he spent the night._

_Sun pounding through his eyelids, familiar lapping wetness on his face. Reaching up to feel living fur, seeing the large dog and the feelings that surged through him_

_Hey buddy, hey, good boy_

_He likes you_

_A man appeared at the doorway, arm intertwined with the woman next to him. Wooden crucifixes dangling against plaid, tied with something leathery_

_No fear surged through Stan. He hadn't learnt it yet._

_Have some breakfast boy, you look starved near to death_

_Fresh fowl prairie rabbits cooked and warm in the mouth but bitter on the tongue_

_Very bitter_

_Too bitter_

_Like Mom's valium_

_but worse_

_And he saw their smiles_

_Right before his head hit the table_

_He woke up to the putrid smell of cooking flesh, rope tight as a fist wrapped around his body. Hands tied. Panic surging when he saw the roasting spit_

_the human forearm it speared_

_The dog wagged happily when the man threw him a finger charred black. Gnawed on it like rawhide. The woman tending the fire fervently, whispering the Lord's Prayer beneath her rotting breath. The fire made her face into a demon_

_Stan screamed_

_Being gagged, cloth cutting cheeks, metal blood running into his mouth_

_They held hands over the cooking arm_

_giving thanks_

_He gave us His body so that we would not hunger_

_he gave us his Blood so that we would not thirst_

_They toasted with wine glasses, staining their smiles red_

_Then the man advanced with the sleek gleam of a pocket knife in his fist, and Stan knew he was dead. But his body did not seem to understand._

_Kick the man in the kneecaps_

_Get his knife_

_Loose his hands_

_And plunge into the soft tissue of the thick ugly neck_

_The dog growled, ears pressed flat, teeth bared in a snarl and attacked. Jaws sunk into Stan's arm and clamped like iron. The pain was hardly there_

_Stan killed it. The woman screamed and dropped her cup, staining the wood blackish. She clutched her veiny hand to the cross around her neck, raising it against Stan as though_ he _was the demon, the monster_

_Maybe he was_

_In that moment_

_He killed her too_

_And escaped while the zombies chewed their flesh_

As it was, there was little danger to find in South Park. In a sickly reminder of Gerald Broflovski, most of the zombies were too broken to be a threat. They littered the town like discarded puppets twitching on feeble strings. Harmless. Almost pitiful. The stench was awful though.

Stan felt invincible as he stalked the streets, covered by night's cloak. Every corner tingled a faint familiarity, and for a split second he entertained the notion that it was Kyle who had trespassed upon  _his_ domain. The thought eased into him as he tread silently, the metal shotgun tingling in his palms. He kept his finger carefully off the trigger. The gunshot would ring through the dark and give him away like fireworks. Kyle would undoubtedly hear it. Stan wanted to catch him unguarded. Perhaps if he wasn't surrounded by the group he'd led for so long, Kyle wouldn't be so damnably neutral about every-fucking-thing. It infuriated Stan that within the short time he'd been back he'd seen Butters cry, Kenny laugh, Tweak explode in irrational anger, but nothing from Kyle. He didn't even seem to care that Stan was alive. And that burned at him.

The bank was in the heart of South Park, but Stan found his way there with little issues. It was unimpressive, looking more like a license bureau than a place for entrusting valuables. He wondered why Kyle had chosen this, off all places, to stake out and make habitable. The temptation to call it a stupid idea, planting oneself right in the booming centre of a deadly ghost town, was thick. But knowing Kyle, there had to be an underlying reason. The last thing Stan wanted was to underestimate this familiar stranger. This unfeeling outsider.

The more he ruminated, the hotter the fire in his chest burned. It filled Stan with apprehension. If he let his emotions fuel the confrontation, he'd certainly lose ground. Kyle would zero in on that vulnerability and tear him apart.

It was a good while standing in front of the front doors of the bank before Stan entered. He monitored his breathing meticulously, in and out, forcing his nerves to relax. It was a practiced calm that settled in him, one that had cleared his head and saved his life countless times. Even now, he felt an intensifying clarity to the whirring cogs in his mind.

There no lights, except for one small flickering flame perched down the hallway around a corner. The air was thick with dust that cloyed up Stan's nose, forcing him to stifle dry coughs into the neck of his jacket. It smelled of old paper, the rich, spiced scent of dusty green bills. He heard the skin-crawling rustle of rats, tiny claws scratch-scratching over the wooden floor. One furry creature as big as his arm flashed glowing eyes at him before scurrying away, wormy tail swishing behind it. It made Stan wish fervidly that zombies would hunger for the diseased taste of vermin instead.

The front desk was vacant, waiting chairs empty and haphazardly scattered around the room. If Kyle was here, he had to be in one of the rooms down the hallway where the big metal bank safes were. Gathering determination, Stan stalked down the hallway. He cocked his head, waiting for the smallest of noises to give Kyle away.

_Thud_

Stan bristled. There was a doorway at the end of the hall, beige and inconspicuous. Hardly soundproof. Stan was certain that it was the origin of the sound, and as his attention gathered, he noticed the small noises as well. There was a bizarre gasping sound that escalated in hiccup-like bouts, as though whoever behind the door could not breathe properly. Like they were was being choked. Stan steeled himself. He swallowed, throat bobbing. This was it.

To hell with formalities. Stan stepped back and kicked the door open.

Too late did he see the red hair that shook with every trembling breath, head buried in spidery hands, the tears washing down a pale face as Kyle sobbed into the empty room.

Shock rooted Stan to the spot. Even as a child, he had never known Kyle to look so… so small. Broken, like a little wax doll. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, nose reddened and cheeks high with colour. Sitting in the centre of the empty room, a solitary candle illuminated half of Kyle's body with wavering light. It was thick and red, with aged mounds of melted wax folded over the base. Kyle sat in front of it as though it was a shrine, close enough to feel the flame's warmth. Save for the candle, the room looked as though it had been in the carnage path of a hurricane. Overturned desks, broken chairs, money scattered on the ground, a pasty grey colour in the dim light. There was a definite absence of things around Kyle, like a fairy circle of broken office supplies. It all faded into the background of consisted, muted shadows. Kyle's colour drew one's eyes like a moth to a flame, the candlelight giving him an unearthly glow. He looked fragile. Like a touch would shatter him into a million pieces.

Startled, Kyle flinched away from the door where Stan stood. Seeing it hanging from hinges, Stan's foot still hanging foolishly in the air, he hastily stood up without bother to wipe the shiny tears from his face.

"What are you doing here?" he said the words harshly, but his voice crackled like newspaper.

Stan was agape. He struggled for words, trying to remember why he had come all this way. For the grand confrontation,  _right?_  It was wiped completely from his mind.

"Kyle, are you…I mean… you're crying," he said stupidly.

Kyle touched his face in awe, like he had forgotten. A hardness overtook his face. He looked at Stan, eyes red.

"Get out."

"Kyle, dude…" Stan tried.

"Get the fuck out."

"Okay," said Stan, anger evaporating. Seeing Kyle like this, he was in no mood to fight. He wanted to hit Kyle when he was up, not kick him when he was down. Not like this.

"I'll go back to the shelter and-"

"No." Kyle's head tilted, a snarl twitching on his face. "I want you to leave South Park. Get out."

The colour drained from Stan's face.

"But-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" Kyle roared, his entire body shaking.

The words stung Stan like a slap to the face. He winced at them, and when he did he thought he saw a shadow of guilt cross over Kyle's expression. But it was gone as quickly as it was made, so he turned and left.

Closing the door gently behind him, Stan leaned against the wall and sank to the floor. Hugging his knees, he breathed in and out. There was a terrible tugging at the back of his throat like a jabbed-in fish hook. His mouth twitched, then contorted without will into an open grimace as sobs racked through his body. He buried his head in his arms to muffle the noise, trying to get a hold of himself. Yes, he was furious at the boy. Yes, he had things he wanted to air out, the despicable treatment of Ike, the issue of Tweak. But the rage he had seen in Kyle was inhuman. Stan's own brand of anger was consuming and hot like a forest fire. But Kyle's ran much deeper, hidden finitely beneath a smooth cooled surface, sluggish as magma until it exploded in wrath, unable to remain concealed forever.

But what had set him off? Was it Tweak? Stan's arrival itself, or the argument with Ike? Over perhaps the overlooking issue that loomed like a distant fog, the undead horde Bebe had spoken of, that now had a living scent leading to the only living humans for miles around. Stan could not guess, nor was his head clear enough for it. The hot tears would not cease. To lose control like this in the middle of an infested wreckage was dangerous. It was stupid and it exposed weakness. But if that were true, then what exactly was Kyle doing?

Lost in thought, he sat until his legs were numb. There was a growing ache in his head, and his stomach writhed with worms. Not until Kyle had demanded it was the revelation clear to Stan; he did not want to leave South Park. His eyes were dried up, burning from having cried so much. He harshly rubbed at them with the heel of his palm. A rouge sob hiccuped its way up his throat. He mashed his lips down in retaliation, refusing to let another noise escape him. It was silly, ruminating on the floor in a pool of his own tears. This was helping absolutely nobody. But he couldn't find the will to pull himself up.

Stan coughed, his nose twitched. This building really was rotting. Ugly smells fumigated the hall, so strong he was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner.

But he broke into chills the moment he heard the unearthly moaning at the front door.

He immediately tried to open the door, but the knob was stuck. Panic surged through him, and he pounded against the wood with enough force to shake it. The noise attracted unwanted attention, pushing Stan to flee, but he willed himself not to give up on Kyle. Not with a hoard of zombies drawing near.

"Kyle, Kyle open the door!"

There was no answer from the other side. The moaning drew nearer.

"Kyle!" shouted Stan, losing all patience, "Zombies! There are zombies out here, you gotta get outa there!" The argument between him and Kyle was growing stupider by the second. He pounded against the door one last time with all his strength.

" _Please!_ "

For a sickening moment there was nothing. Then the door opened. Kyle did not look at him, but he grabbed Stan's arm and dragged him further down the hall, deeper into the building. Without a word Stan allowed himself to be led, giving himself in to trust the boy who had not so long ago told him to fuck off.

Kyle released him when they arrived at a broken window. He automatically stepped back like he meant for Stan to go first. Hesitantly, Stan clambered over the window sill. He dropped into the dank street, Kyle immediately behind him. There was unearthly groaning all around them, and they ran.

It was always worse in the dark. Without thought Stan intertwined his fingers with Kyle's for fear of separation. He guessed the other had the same idea, because he immediately felt a tight squeeze around his hand instead of the expected withdrawal. They silently stole down the street together, slowing in unison with each crescendo of howls and groans.

Down a street Kyle froze, jolting Stan backwards when a zombie lurched out from around the corner. Its head tilted in a mockery of thought and then, with horrific deliberation, turned sluggishly in Stan's direction. It staggered forward, slowed by a sickeningly twisted ankle, but still deadly. Stan gripped the base of his rifle with his free hand and swung it into the zombie's head. There was a crack like a dropped egg and the zombie fell. It choked off a few guttural growls before Kyle crushed its ugly skull with the heel of his boot. There was no time to survey the damage, the inhuman calls in the night air urged Stan to keep moving.

Assuming the lead, Kyle held onto Stan's hand as they ducked and weaved through South Park's broken terrain. Voices echoed all around them, closing in. There were no words exchanged between them, partly because Stan could think of nothing to say. That familiar prick of fear was back, shooting up his veins with fire and squeezing his heart with a painful, metal glove. Another zombie staggered horrifically close by them, then another. They milled about in all directions, seeming to multiply in number like spiders pouring from eggs. Stan forced himself to keep his finger away from the rifle's trigger; it would be certain doom if he were to accidentally pull it.

Kyle's eyes glinted hard in the moonlight like metal, the sharp profile of his nose illuminated as he twisted and turned in search of an escape route.

"There," he whispered, pointing to an old fire escape hanging off one of the apartment buildings.

Stan instantly knew what Kyle was formulating. If they could make it high enough they could travel by rooftop, leaping from building to building. Utterly out of the zombie's reach.

"It'll make a hell of a noise," said Stan, eyeing the heavy metal ladder.

"We got no other choice."

Kyle knelt down and picked up a large piece of rubble. He weighed it in his hands for a moment, then whipped his arm back and chucked it far across the street. There was a resounding smashing of windows followed by an uproar of moans as zombies turned and lumbered in the direction of the noise.

The fire escape ladder was still high above their heads. Stan made an effort to jump and grab it, but he fell ridiculously short. He turned to Kyle and crouched, lacing his fingers together.

"I'll boost you."

Kyle moved quickly, placing his hands on Stan's shoulders and leaning on them with his entire weight. He was so scrawny it felt more the weight of an alley cat than a boy to Stan. The rough edge of his boot found Stan's palms. Kyle looked squarely at Stan and nodded. Without missing a beat Stan bolstered the boy up with so much force he became airborne for a split second. He saw Kyle's outstretched hand snatch the bottom rung of the ladder, releasing it to the ground. Screeching metal and a loud clanging when the rungs hit the ground drew the zombie's attention, dead eyes gazing blindly towards the conspicuous noise.

Without hesitation he climbed, imaginary teeth grazing Stan's ankles as he ascended. The fire escape led to the highest floor, only a small jump upwards to the roof. Stan's muscles burned as he hauled himself over the ledge and onto the rooftop. Kyle jumped up, grunting with effort as he tried to grip the roof too. Stan could see his thin arms tremble violently, before the grip slipped and Kyle fell off.

He looked up at the ledge with determination, made a running jump and missed again. There was a moment of panic on his face until Stan reached down.

"Grab my hand, I'll pull you up."

Kyle looked mildly surprised, but relieved. He accepted the hand and scrambled up and Stan pulled. Stan wondered how many times Kyle had done this on his own, scaling through the town and carving out escape routes in the situations that presented none. It was a hell of a lot easier when there was two of them; that was certain. Stan found he preferred the presence of another human, especially one who was brilliant and competent. Finally, in this world of rot and decay, someone was rooting for  _his_  survival. At least, he hoped Kyle felt that way.

Here, above the chaos and the noise, the night seemed almost peaceful. The sky was a rich, dark, inky blue, the moon a pale crescent glowing. Stan peered down to find zombies all around, peppering the town. It would be impossible for any of them to reach the rooftop. They were safe for now.

"Probably came from the forest," surmised Kyle as he squinted into the darkness, panting. "Loads of survivors go there, thinking that it's safe there because it's far from civilization…but it's not. They all die and crowd up the forest, sometimes we get the overflow."

"Will the others be okay?"

"Should be," said Kyle. "They know to go to the roof if the herd comes their way." He surveyed the surroundings, and then sat down to Stan's surprise. "We shouldn't move 'til dawn."

Stan agreement. "Yeah, I'd prefer being able to see two feet past my nose with those sons of bitches running around." He hesitated, then set the gun down carefully. The new dilemma that faced him was not one to be handled with firearms. He had enough social grace to know that. But there were still questions on his mind.

"So, back there. What was that, man?"

Or perhaps not. Kyle pricked at the question, even in the dark Stan could sense tension building. But in the calm it was easy for his anger to ebb back, and he wasn't going to let Kyle dance around his questions like this night never happened.

Stan waited a beat, then reiterated the question. "I'm pissed at you. I'm fucking appalled at the way you've been running things, treating Ike. So do yourself a favour and show me that there's a goddam sliver of humanity left inside you. Why the tears?"

There was a stony silence, and for a moment Stan was worried he'd pushed too far. But then Kyle spoke.

"It's stupid."

The comment made Stan frown.

"What, why?"

Kyle was curled into a ball, staring purposely at nothing.

"You cannot tell anyone." The words quiet, but still commanding. Stan shrugged them off. "Those people…they respect me. They depend on me, they need me to be strong. Do not endanger the hierarchy of the group, or you will be leaving South Park come dawn."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. No problem."

He sat next to Kyle, not quite facing him. He didn't want to scare this new, vulnerable Kyle back down the rabbit hole and have Big Commander Douche Bag take his place.

In the silence he could hear Kyle's lips part.

"It…It was my dad."

Stan's heart stopped.

"He'd turned a long time ago, but I could never shoot him. I'd see him, walking around, and sometimes…I could imagine that he was still…still alive. Like he was still watching out for me. I'd come here when things at the shelter went south, when Ike was angry with me, or someone did something stupid…I'd come here and find him and I'd…I'd talk to him. Whatever it was, he- ah-" Kyle broke away, stubbornly stifling an incoming sob with a loud sniff.

"-he'd listen. There was a part of me that liked to think he was still in there, the real him, just not in control of his body. That way he was still with me. Even when he started rotting, I hid him in a garbage bin. No one scavenges those, so I-I figured he'd be safe. But today, he was…."

The words trailed off into the starry sky. Cloudless, beautiful. But inside all Stan felt was ugliness.

_I did that._

It was all too fresh, and suddenly the memory swooped down and took Stan hostage. He could  _feel_ the metal weight of his old bat, remembered the swing in his muscles. Gerald's dead eyes stared at him relentlessly, accusingly. He realized that they were a perfect reflection of Kyle's, but empty and white.

A shiver ran down his spine. The night suddenly was cold, blackness enveloping him and crushing against his chest. He felt as though he would vomit.

"You okay?"

Kyle was looking at him oddly, with something like regret.

"I should've said anything…shit…" said Kyle, moreso to himself. "…Forget it. Just forget it, you don't need my life story."

Stan's mouth was bitter.

"Kyle, I-"

"No, stop." The words were heated, Kyle's authoritative ringing ebbing back. "The issue's dropped. Go, rest, I'll keep watch."

The urge to speak was unbearable, but cowardice won Stan over. Biting his tongue, he took heavy steps to the other side of the roof and lay down. The shingles were anything but comfortable, but they pricked him not half as much as the guilt stewing in his chest. It reminded him of a story his mother had told him long ago, about the little men who lived in everybody's hearts. Most of the time the men slept, but if somebody did something wrong, the little man that lived in their heart would wake up. With a sharp stick he would poke the heart, over and over, until the wrong had been righted.

A child's lesson in guilt, but equal in power to a rock being smashed over Stan's head. He buried his head in his arms, as if that would shield him from the thoughts that peppered at him like hail. There was no way he was falling asleep, even if he wanted too. The growling undead were too close, and besides, he was curious as to what Kyle would do while Stan was supposedly unconscious. If he did anything.

It was a long time of laying still, ignoring the tingling of numb muscles, until Kyle shook Stan 'awake'.

"We gotta get moving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, thank you for reading, thank you for your feedback. The opinion of another human being is absolutely invaluable because it's one of the few things you cannot provide yourself with.
> 
> Have a lovely day!
> 
> Edit: Typo fixed!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me this is the last fix omg I can't believe I did this to you readers I am so so so sorry

The setting sun cast a filtered dark blue to fill the shelter, punctuated by the flickering glow of several candlesticks. The other survivors were sitting in a cluttered circle around a big, metal stock pot bubbling with something thick and warm set on a heat-resistant cutting board. Spicy, meaty vapours poured into the room, steaming up the place. The scent pricked the back of Stan's tongue and his mouth pooled with saliva. Ike was chatting amiably with Butters, waving his spoon in the air with enthusiasm. Though the latter was quiet, he seemed to be receptive to the young boy's storytelling. It set in Stan a feeling of ease. Curled on a couch, Red nursed a bowl of the stuff, a book propped on the arm of the couch. Cartman dug in greedily, making eyes at Bebe when she walked by with her own cup. She made a noise of disgust from the back of her throat and turned away, to Stan's entertainment. Tweak was curled up against Craig, cupping a cracked mug with shaky hands. He stared intently into the mug's contents, ignoring Stan and the others as they entered the room.

Stan didn't care. He was preoccupied with imagining the contents of the stockpot flowing down his throat and filling his belly.

Kenny tapped his side. "Follow my lead." He led Stan to the corner of the store that must have been where the cash register and counter used to be. It looked like what Stan pictured it had before, but broken and cracked. Despite corrosion over time, what was left of the counters was glistening clean. Fishing around, Kenny pulled out two coffee mugs, a ladle, and a sugar spoon. When offered both, Stan took the ladle. Sure, he'd look like a starving animal scarfing down food in quantities larger than his mouth could fit, but it was better than shovelling rapid speed with a dainty-ass spoon that could barely hold a sugar cube. Kenny slapped one of the chipped mugs in his palm. He spooned Stan a ladle full of thick, textured reddish brown liquid, dotted with chunks of meat. Taking a bite, Stan was surprised by the sharp, exotic flavour, and he groaned uncontrollably.

"Wha' the fuck is this?" he asked, mouth full of delicious warmth. It made his eyes watery.

"Deer and onions probably," answered Kenny, mouth similarly full. "Wild onions. Ike's got a garden going out by the wreckage maze."

"Wreckage maze?"

"Yeah," said Kenny, taking another spoonful. "All that carnage in between here and the town is our zombie buffer. Kyle thought of it, took us a month to finish. Let me tell you, nothing shreds hands like rusty car parts."

Stan winced, adjusting the ladle in his fingers. "Does it work?"

"Oh yeah, especially for runners. It's like the glass door of mazes, they just run into everything straight on. Can't turn worth shit."

Stan laughed, and looked around the room. He caught Butters' eye, the soft-spoken blonde giving a tentative smile. Stan wanted to go to him and talk with him, let him know that he wasn't the type to hold a grudge. Besides, the blonde had been through enough today. For god's sake, he'd cried twice already. But Kenny was beside him now, and Stan felt reluctant to leave him. He enjoyed the easy going vibe, it was refreshing. Kenny hadn't brought up the past once the entire time they'd been reacquainted.

"Hey, how do you get on with Butters?"

Kenny frowned. "Who?"

"Uh, Leopold."

"Oh. Umm…" Kenny trailed off in thought. "Alright, I guess. Better in small doses."

Stan could relate. The boy certainly was high-maintenance, it seemed that Ike was the only one willing to be around him for long periods of time. Which made Stan a tick guilty, until he vehemently reminded himself that Butters was not his responsibility.

"And Ike?"

Now Kenny smiled broadly. "Fucking awesome. If all this shit hadn't gone down ten years back, he'd have cured cancer by now."

Stan agreed. Ike was sharp as a whip. It bothered him that Kyle didn't seem to see it, he trusted Ike so little. _How could he lock him up,_ Stan wondered, _even if it is for his own safety? He's his brother, for fucks sake._

The thoughts reminded Stan of the infuriating discovery. Fresh rage surged through him, and he looked up at Kenny suddenly. "Did you know Kyle locks Ike up?"

The blunt question startled Kenny, who froze mid-chew. "Woah, where'd that come from?"

"I just gotta know man."

Kenny swallowed, looking rather ill. "I mean, _I_ don't agree with it. But yeah, he does. Whenever he leaves for a raid, he gets paranoid. He thinks Ike will sneak out if he's not around, which, as we've recently found out, is bullshit. Ike sneaks out no matter what."

Stan shook his head with disgust. He stared into his mug of meaty soup, no longer hungry. "Where is Kyle?"

"Don't talk to him man."

Stan looked at him sharply. "Why the fuck not?"

"Kyle does what he thinks is best. If you threaten that, then…I don't know what he'll do. No one really argues with him, except Cartman, but he's always looking for a fight so no one takes him seriously."

"So, what? Does Ike have any idea how to survive out there? Has he even killed a zombie yet?"

Kenny blinked, a peculiar confusion crossing his face. "I…I don't think so. Huh. Never thought about that before."

Stan leapt on this newfound information like wolves on prey. "Kyle's setting him up to be slaughtered! You should have seen him out there. When I bumped into him last night, I thought he was going to piss himself."

"I mean, he's smart, he can get himself out of a situation. You obviously didn't shoot him," defended Kenny.

"He didn't exactly do himself any favours," shot back Stan. "Kid's got a mouth on him. If I was someone else, I'd have killed him straight away and looted his shit."

"But you _didn't_ ," pressed Kenny stubbornly.

"What if he gets cornered? It will happen. Life doesn't always give you an escape route, that's why there are so few of us in this room right now," snapped Stan.

That shut Kenny up. His eyes darted around the room, and Stan realized that subtle ears were listening. The conversational buzz was gone, leaving Stan's last words echoing stiffly in the air. He decided he didn't care anymore. He raised his voice.

"Where is Kyle?"

Everyone fell silent. There was a clear reluctance to answer him. Evasive eyes, awkward coughs and throat-clearings. Butters looked utterly grave.

"Why do _you_ wanna know?" drawled Cartman, leaning sloppily into his chair. His eyes were so lidded they looked like slits.

"None of your fucking business." Stan was entirely sick of playing nice. It had been barely a day, and already his temper was pushed to the very brink. _Fucking people, man._ He saw Tweak curling deeper into Craig's armpit, shaking so violently that Craig's arm was jittering too. He really couldn't be bothered with the boy right now. Let him waste his gift. Let him watch everyone he loves get bitten and rot.

Cartman shrugged back dramatically, chins appearing in the folds of his neck. "You really should do something about that cactus up your vagina," he chastised Stan like a stupid child. 'It's triggering your PMS."

"Yeah, 'cause that's how it fucking works," called Bebe from across the room. "Shut the fuck up, moron."

"You first, stupid bitch."

Bebe thrust herself up, fists curled for a fight. Immediately Kenny raced over and grabbed her arms, gently pushing her back down. He murmured something in her ear, to which she spat a retort. Stan didn't hear. He didn't really give a shit about whatever petty rivalries coursed in the group.

He zeroed in on Butters, which may not have been fair, or even particularly moral considering Butters' fragility. The knowledge was too far back in his thoughts, drowned out by the pressing issue.

He crouched down, nose to nose with Butters. "You know where he is?"

Blinking rapidly, Butters had difficulty looking at Stan directly. Stan felt intimidating, with it a surge of power. He waited.

"Bad idea!" called out Bebe.

"Butters."

Butters winced. But Stan's gaze was unwavering. Without looking up, he mumbled, "…outside, in the town…he's working on scouting a second shelter…"

" _Where?_ "

Finally, Butters surrendered. "The bank. He said something about the bank, but that could be wrong…"

Bebe sighed loudly. "See, Butters, this is why no one can depend on you for shit."

Butters shut down, eyes ceasing to avoid and now staring dead into space. Blank and robotic. Ike looked at him worriedly with big eyes, and that filled Stan with disgust for the blonde. He grabbed a shotgun leaning against the wall and went to the door. Hand squeezing the knob, he twisted and glowered at Bebe.

"Shut the fuck up."

Cartman guffawed.

Stan cocked the gun.

"Don't. Make. Me. Shoot. You."

And he slammed the door. Rage, anticipation, even fear, skittered through his body like cockroaches. He didn't know what to expect, and that scared him. _What sort of a person is Kyle?_ What had he become since fourth grade, to be able to lock up his brother, shoot off orders like a dictator, breath words that had the power to elicit silence and tears? Would he listen? No, he _had_ to. Stan was his best friend. Even now Stan felt an underlying bond with the boy, faded and torn, but there. Surely something in Kyle had survived. Stan was determined to find the last piece of humanity within him, dig it out with broken fingers and hold it, beating, raw, and wholly exposed beneath the bloody sky. Find that person he could talk with, laugh with. Pour his heart and soul into, and receive theirs in return. He had to. It had been so long.

So long.

Breathing shallowly, he clutched the heavy gun and broke into a light jog towards South Park.


	15. Chapter 15

Feigning a stretch and a yawn, Stan stood up. He followed Kyle to the edge of the roof, where the morning sun was just breaking over the horizon. Beautiful yellow and pink streaked the sky, but Stan had seen plenty of sunrises before. Kyle side-eyed him shadily, but as long as he didn't bring anything up, Stan wouldn't either.

With the unannounced vow of silence binding their tongues, the stubborn boys leapt from rooftop to rooftop until before them loomed the ancient grandness of a ruined apartment store. It reached stories over their heads into the sky like a beanstalk, but utterly unclimbable. Kyle pursed his lips, his expression smooth and analytical.

"The alleyways will be less infested, but still deadly. Be sure to keep on your toes."

The overly-worried command tempted Stan to grumble before he remembered he was not speaking to Kyle. He merely nodded and leapt over the ledge, landing as softly as a cat in the torn up streets. In a beat he heard Kyle landing behind him, his fall less practiced and more flailing. It was strange to think the word  _pampered_ during this reign of the undead, but Kyle had fallen into the luxury of a constant home with loyal survivors to aide him despite any hardship. Stan had relied upon his baseball bat and his wits.

The difference to their gaits was palpable too, Stan moving swiftly while Kyle hesitated around every corner. In this uneven manner of travelling they arrived at the edge of the town, leaving a wide stretch of land and sky between them and the shelter. As they approached, Stan could see that the wreckage maze was tangled with zombies. They were impaled on car parts, ensnared in traps, or simply too stupid to move beyond a dead end. Animalistic moans and grunts filled the air, giving to crescendo as Stan and Kyle drew closer.

Kyle flung out his arm, stopping Stan.

"I need a weapon."

 _Finally_ , thought Stan as he searched their surroundings. Moving without baggage was good in times of flight, but when it came to a fight Kyle would be useless.

Apparently Stan was more creative in terms of weaponry than Kyle, because when he handed the latter a rusted garbage lid he received a queer look.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked Kyle incredulously.

Lips still obstinately locked, Stan wordlessly thrust the rifle into Kyle's arms instead. The latter's eyes widened with surprise, but before he could protest, Stan was off.

He held the garbage lid like a shield as he advanced. Spying a familiar glint of metal on the ground, Stan stooped down and retrieved a carpenter's nail, so big it had to have been meant for heavy projects. It fit like a shiv in his hands. With this, he could afford a more direct approach, as banging zombies over the head with a reverberating garbage lid would undoubtedly attract attention.

When the first zombie turned towards him he plunged the nail straight into the zombie's eye socket, bursting the lifeless orb there and squirting sour smelling fluid on Stan's face. Looking back, he saw Kyle gaping at him as though he were insane.

Such a look ought to have earned Stan a cocky surge of arrogance, but he felt empty instead. There was no kindling for the fire to catch. It was unsettling, but it also kept his head clear as he stalked up to the next zombie. With a swift stab to the temple the corpse fell, not even having the time to gurgle.

Finally out of his stupor, Kyle caught up to Stan. He eyed the fallen zombie, the precise wound made by the blood slickened nail. There were thoughts visible on his face, but the present demanded Stan's attention, so he reluctantly ignored Kyle.

There was a cluster ahead, five or six zombies scrawling over one another in a dead end of tires and wooden boards. Delicately stepping over a dead zombie with its skull snapped by a bear trap, Stan's mind raced through possibilities. He could start a chase, lead the zombies out of the maze and get them spread out. That would make it easier to kill them, plus lessen the risk of getting bit. He could ignore them and bolt to the shelter for help. Sneak up and take them all out with the rusty nail. That would be risky.

Before he could make up his mind Kyle crept next to him, fixated on the cluster. He nervously glanced over to the shelter.

"We gotta kill 'em," whispered Kyle. "They'll break down the maze. Even if we kill them all afterwards, repairs would be too risky. At least 'til the rest of the zombies are cleared out of the town."

He then pursed his lips and gave a high whistle. Very slowly, the zombies turned and stumbled towards Kyle. The air was full of grotesque snorts and snuffles as the zombies caught his scent, noses raised to the sky.

Stan always suspected that Kyle was crazy, but he never would have guessed suicidal. Now the boy had a horde on his scent, and Stan was not exactly jumping to tango with six zombies. So instead he scrambled up the maze wall to look down at the zombies. The wall of boarding and car scraps was unsteady, but if Stan had confidence in one thing, it was his balance. He leapt down behind the cluster as it shuffled towards Kyle and drove the nail into the nearest cranium. The rest were unsuspecting, infatuated by Kyle's living scent.

He took a hasty step and thrust the nail into another's neck.  _Shit_. He'd thrust it too deep. Embedded in the zombie, the nail was unobtainable as undead flesh enclosed all sides. But that was why any self-respecting survivor always carried a Plan B.

There was a resounding  _clang_  when Stan swung the garbage can lid at the next zombie. As he expected it didn't drop dead immediately. Neck grotesquely crooked, it lurched at Stan. He shielded himself. The garbage lid caught its bite, breaking teeth characterised by little clacks and snaps. Stan pushed forward and ran the zombie into another, crushing both of them against the maze. They both snapped at him with greedy jaws, but Stan held his footing. He turned to Kyle.

"Take 'em out!" urged Stan.

Kyle raised the rifle, and Stan nearly shit himself.

"No! No, idiot, quietly!"

_Crunch_

Kyle drove the metal barrel of the rifle through one zombie's forehead. Arching a brow, he gave Stan a look.

"I wasn't born yesterday dude," he said with the barest hint of a smile.

Kyle swung back with the rifle butt again, ready to slam it into the remaining zombie. But with a sudden burst of inhuman strength, the undead monster shoved against the garbage lid and sent Stan reeling. He stumbled backwards, the garbage top clanging as he lost his grip and sent it crashing into the wreckage. He looked up just in time to see the last rogue zombie sink its teeth into Kyle's arm.

Tearing away the flesh there.

Dive back in for a second bite.

He moved without thought. Stan hurled himself at the zombie and plunged his thumbs into the soft eyeballs of the undead monster. He pressed until he could feel the squelchy, ruined brain against his thumb pads, them pressed further. Moving rapidly so as to scramble the zombie's mind until it dropped stone cold dead at his feet.

Gasping for air, Kyle lay on the ground. His face was drained of colour, but his eyes were so, so alive with fear. He clutched at his forearm where the bite had peeled away at his skin. Shiny, soft red muscle was exposed, but Stan didn't take a second to survey the damage. He scooped Kyle into his arms, light as a child, and ran for the shelter like the Hounds of Hell were after him. It seemed ages before he finally scrambled up the front porch, Kyle growing paler, his shirt getting sticky with blood.

"I need a knife!" screamed Stan when he kicked open the door to the shelter. Immediately the room was thrown into chaos when he revealed Kyle, limp and pale. Stan lay him on the floor. Best to give him a hard surface as a backdrop, to make things easier.

"What the fuck happened?!" demanded Cartman angrily. "You killed him, didn't you?! You  _fucking murderer_!"

"No, shut up idiot!" shouted back Bebe, "Stan, what the fuck is going on?"

"He got bit, someone get me a fucking knife!"

"Wait, what happened to Kyle?" Ike's tiny voice was filled with disbelief as he ran over to see his older brother. "Why isn't he awake?"

Stan was breathing heavily. His patience was worn.

" _A FUCKING KNIFE!"_

Quickly, with much fumbling, Butters scrambled over to Stan with a machete.

"W-will this work?"

"Yeah. Alcohol."

Ike watched him, terrified as a rabbit.

"W-what are you going to do?"

"Save his life," responded Stan.

Kenny was next to him suddenly, and an old bottle of whiskey was set beside Stan. Everyone was crowding now, imposing in on Stan's space, but he wasn't about to waste the five seconds telling them to _move the fuck back._  He poured the whiskey over the sharp blade and turned to Kenny. Out of all the faces here, Kenny's impish features were the most trustworthy to Stan.

"Hold his arm out, don't let him move it."

Kenny swallowed, looking sick. But he followed Stan's orders.

"Oh God…are you gonna…" mumbled Butters paley. "Y-you're gonna…"

A guttural cough wracked from Kyle, silencing everyone in the room as Stan's fingers felt for the connective tissues beneath the skin of Kyle's shoulder socket. Once the familiar indent between bone and socket was found, he raised the machete and brought it down with all his might.

" _Oh my God!_ "

Stan ignored the outbursts, the horrified shouting and calling. He raised his arm again and sliced again, going through soft tissue and muscle like he was chopping firewood. He willed himself to not look at Kyle's face, Kyle who surely was coming back to his sense in all the pain.

In a heartbeat Ike was beside him, cradling Kyle's head with his hands. "It's gonna be okay," he hushed as Kyle's eyes opened. "It's okay, it's okay I promise."

The expression on Kyle's face snapped from confused to terrified. He stretched opened his mouth in a wretched show of pain, but before the scream could work its way up his throat Bebe stuffed in a balled up shirt to muffle it. Her face was determined, gritted with discomfort as she held the cloth there firmly. Kenny looked similar, cold sweat dampening his light shirt. Red and Cartman both hung back, fixated on the amputation. Red's face was wrought with fear and concern, but Cartman seemed almost fascinated by the display.

Stan clenched his teeth and braced himself. There was only a thread of muscle left connecting the arm to the shoulder, and Stan was immensely relieved to see that the spurting blood was a dark red. With every hack it sprayed him, Kenny, Ike, anyone else in the splash zone. Though he struggled to keep his face calm for Kyle's sake, Ike's expression slowly grew horrified. Kenny was breathing close-mouthed, seemingly intent on not puking all over Stan's surgery. Bebe's hair was quickly becoming the shorter, stickier version of Red's.

The metal smelled filled the room, and with an exhale of exertion, Stan sliced through the final tendon. Then, before anyone could protest, hopefully before Kyle realized what was going on, he grabbed the whiskey bottle again and splashed it over the freshly bleeding, raw stump.

The roar ripped out of Kyle's lungs like he was possessed. His entire body twitched violently while Stan cut through the rest of his shirt and cast it aside. Sweat and tears leaked over Kyle's face as he howled. Stan looked around wildly.

"Did no one think to grab some  _fucking bandages_?"

Red burst in exclamation, "We don't have any, we ran out years ago!"

"Then something clean!"

She thought for a moment, before dashing from the room. When she returned she held a billowing mass of bed sheets in her arms. Stan took them and began shredding them into clinical strips. Kyle's posture faltered. Stan motioned at Kenny, who was still holding the blackening severed arm and looking rather queasy.

"Prop him up."

Kenny did not need to be told twice. He dropped the severed limb and hurriedly did as Stan asked while Stan wrapped the sheets around Kyle's torso, covering the stump and stopping the blood. It took several layers before Stan was satisfied with the patch job. Kyle's head flopped in front of him, again unconscious. Stan scooped him up and set him gently on the nearest couch, stump up to help the blood clot.

Rarely had he ever felt so relieved. Now that the deed was done, it was like the entire room had released a breath. Kyle's naked chest was moving, up and down. His lips were parted, eyes closed. He was still terribly pale, but not deathly so, and certainly not tinged grey as so many of the zombies were.

Bebe broke the silence.

"So he got bit. And you cut his arm off. And I  _helped_  you."

Stan nodded. "He'll be fine when he wakes up. Weak, but good."

"Does that work? Cutting it off?" asked Kenny, still stunned.

"If you do it quickly enough. And you have to cut off enough, not just a few inches above the bite."

"Damn…" Kenny glanced over at Kyle's sleeping body. "That was intense."

"How did you know?" asked Red demurely. "I mean, you really looked like you knew what you were doing."

The question stirred up another face from Stan's memory. Not so long ago he'd ran with another group of survivors, a little too ruthless for Stan's tastes. But they were intelligent, and taught him valuable things about living in the apocalypse.

"Doesn't matter, they're dead now."

"Who?" asked Kenny.

"Old friends."

Ike was clutching Kyle's remaining hand like a lifeline, holding it close and crying softly. Cartman was uncharacteristically quiet, pouting at nothing in particular. Shaking her head, Bebe went to the entrance of the shelter.

"I gotta…I gotta go clear my head." She opened the door, pausing to look back. "Anyone wanna come?"

"I'd go  _anywhere_  with you," purred Cartman as he smirked blatantly at Bebe's figure.

"This is so  _not_ the time you fat shit," spat Bebe. "Anyone else?"

Nodding, Red snatched a shovel from the weapons pile and joined the blonde. She turned to Stan.

"Give us an hour, okay?"

Stan nodded and the girls left, Cartman lumbering stubbornly after them. Bebe could handle herself, and Red seemed competent enough. Cartman was disgusting and hateful, but the looming possibility of death was too fresh to wish it upon anybody. He didn't blame the Bebe for wanting to leave. The room reeked of blood.

Very shyly, Butters approached Stan. He eyed the sticky red stains with fear, like they were inclined to rise up and bite him.

"I-I suppose we should clean that up, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, good idea." Desperate for a distraction, Stan accepted Butters' proposal. He noted Kenny, who stood like a statue, fixated on Kyle's severed arm. When he saw Stan, a faint reminder of his trademark trickster smile donned his face.

"D'you think we ought to keep it? I mean, for Kyle's sake. He might miss it, he seemed awfully attached to it."

Stan laughed, especially when Butters shuddered involuntarily at the implications of Kenny's words.

"One less thing for the zombies to attack him for. It's the way of the future."

Kenny smirked. "Right. Cut off all your limbs, there'll be nothing left for the zombies to chomp! What could possibly go wrong?"

Butters still looked pale, so Stan nudged him.

"Dude, we're joking. It's cool."

"But it's so horrible," said Butters quietly. His baby blue eyes were wide with tainted innocence. "He's missing his arm, and, and you're joking about it."

Giving Stan a knowing look of annoyance, Kenny zipped his lips with a gesture of his hands and raised his eyebrows. Turning his back on the two, he strode towards Ike and began talking to the young boy instead.

Kenny's withdrawal left Butters looking even more forlorn. It urged Stan to speak, something of comfort for once.

"Yeah, losing your arm, it sucks. But that's life. We saved Kyle, and yeah, there were some consequences…but there are always consequences. May as well get a good laugh out of them, 'stead of letting them eat you up. Hell, some days, that's the only way you survive." Stan laughed bitterly. "Life's one big, cruel joke. You're supposed to laugh."

Butters was silent in thought. He still seemed slightly troubled, but not so shocked or offended as he had been. That was enough for Stan to dismiss that issue because, after all, there was no point in focusing on the negative and holding grudges. He peered around the room.

"Where's Tweak and Craig?"

"Uh, in the sleeping room," answered Butters. "Tweak needs to sleep a lot, otherwise he gets…worse. And he can't sleep without Craig. They're, uh, heavy sleepers."

Stan frowned. Tweak was such an erratic, dependant creature. With his flyaway hair and perpetual under-eye bags, he fit the part of the alien perfectly. Weird, curious, something to be avoided, Stan decided. It was apparent that Craig was no fan of his. Tweak himself had been cordial, but his risky behaviour was too much for Stan to overlook.

"Will he be okay?" Butters glanced over at Kyle, too scared to look at him outright.

Stan shrugged. "There's nothing else I can do for him. Ike's with him. That'll be enough."

He followed Butters to the bathing area, where they each carried a weighty bucket brimming with water and several clean rags. To Stan's chagrin, there were no cleaning supplies to be spoken of left in the convenience store. Though he supposed that was to be expected. They soaked the large stain with water and scrubbed, creating a transparent red to tinge the floor rather than the ugly brown. Stan steeled himself and did the work, but he could see Butters becoming visibly queasy. The blond was turning a greenish colour, looking very much seasick.

"Hey, Butters, take a break," ordered Stan. He didn't want to have to clean up vomit as well.

Without so much as a protest, Butters fled the room. Kenny watched him go from the couch, absently rubbing a sleeping Ike's back. Ike, who was cuddled up to Kyle like a puppy on the narrow sofa. Kenny was seated on the floor, leaning upward as there was no room for him. Gingerly, he withdrew his hand and crept over to Stan, picking up Butters' discarded rag.

"Y'know, you're a natural leader," said the handsome boy as he scrubbed the floor.

Stan snorted. "Is that code for asshole?"

Kenny laughed quietly so as not to disturb Ike and Kyle.

"No, not at all dude. You kept a cool head. Back there…I couldn't have done that."

"Done what?"

"Hacked a guy's arm off to save his life, I don't know! You got everyone to do what you needed them too, and the result is that Kyle's still breathing. We wouldn't have known, that bite would've killed Kyle if you weren't here. You…you cheated death." concluded Kenny, awestruck.

Stan continued to scrub. He hardly felt as extraordinary as Kenny made him out to be with Gerald Broflovski weighing on his mind.

"I knew what to do, that's not leadership. That's just…knowing things. It's not special."

Shaking his head, Kenny smiled. "Sure thing buddy."

They scrubbed in silence, the only noises coming from the soft, sleeping breathes of two brothers curled up together on a single couch. Kyle's arm was wrapped protectively around Ike, who burrowed into the soft warmth of his brother's chest like a rabbit. And like it couldn't be helped, Kyle's armless shoulder was poised as if to curl around Ike too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been dying to post this part for so long you have no idea. Yeah. So yeah. Kyle's got his arm chopped off. Holy shit, I swear I didn't plan for that to happen. Honestly, spontaneous writing is just magical sometimes.
> 
> Thanks so so much if you've stuck around after sixteen chapters of this, I do appreciate it so so much, as I'm sure you know if you've read every single author's note up to the sixteenth chapter. Now that I'm making the chapters longer, it may take longer for me to pump them out. Hopefully the tradeoff will be worth it.
> 
> Have a lovely evening!


	16. Chapter 16

The water in the metal buckets was considerably redder after the countless wringing of blood soaked rags. There was a good warm sweat built up on Stan's forehead, weird in the sense that it was due to physical effort rather than sheer terror. He and Kenny had cleaned what they could without words, so as not to disturb Ike and Kyle. The brothers still slept on the ratty couch, and Stan had been keeping note of Kyle's breathing. He didn't want Ike to wake up cuddling a corpse. And he didn't want Kyle to die either, not if he was being truthful with himself. Definitely not until he came clean about what had really happened to Gerald Broflovski. Perhaps it was a selfish motive, but everyone else seemed to be benefiting from it. Ike had a brother, and the rest of them had a leader.  _The greater good and all that_ , he thought. Guilt was a curious feeling. Stan wondered at why he cared so much.

With a satisfied final wring of his cloth, Kenny flopped backwards to lay down on the floor, arms spread like a snow angel.

"Shit, I haven't cleaned a floor since I was ten. Housework, man. It'll be the death of me."

There was little room left in Stan for humour, but he smiled anyways.

"That's funny."

"I know," said Kenny as he threw his rag into the bucket of bloody water. He gestured to Kyle. "D'you think he'll be alright?"

Stan shrugged. "He's got to be. Otherwise you're going to have a power struggle on your hands."

"Y'know, if it's a matter of leadership, you could always…"

"No. I'd get you all killed."

"Fine, fine." Kenny held up his hands in surrender. "You remember that when this place is burning and Cartman's eaten all the food."

The image was all too easily conjured to Stan, and he shuddered.

"What about you?" asked Stan, picking up his bucket. "As far as I can tell, you're the sanest one here."

Kenny chuckled and followed Stan out the door. Together they overturned the bloody water into the soil in front of the shelter.

"Think any poppies will grow?"

"What?"

"Poppies," repeated Kenny. "Like Flanders Fields. So many soldiers were killed there that their blood mixed into the soil and caused millions of poppies to grow. Something about the iron, I think."

"Doubt it," muttered Stan as he watched the soil soak up the murky water. "If that was the case, there'd be poppies all over the place."

His words sobered Kenny somewhat, who frowned and stared into his now-empty bucket. The two boys left the buckets outside and went back into the shelter in a considerably thicker tension. After a beat, something caught Kenny's attention and he managed something like a half-smile.

"I'd like lilacs better. They smell nicer."

"Thanks Kenny," mumbled a sleepy voice as Ike rubbed his eyes and yawned sleepily. "I'll start on another patch for the front yard soon…just…after winter passes."

Stan became immediately alert, but he kept his voice calm.

"Hey Ike, how're you doing?" he asked softly.

"…Good…will Kyle be okay?" Ike's voice was still sluggish from sleep, but full of concern.

"He'll be fine," answered Stan instantly. "The worst of it's over. He's managing the blood loss really well, it's good he's getting some rest."

A look of content settled over Ike's face. He resettled himself beside Kyle, who still seemed dead to the world.

"I'm so happy…you found me in that church," said Ike.

A warm feeling filled Stan, like hot chocolate on an icy winter's eve.

"Yeah, me too Ike."

"Me three, Ike," imitated Cartman as he sauntered into the room, tailed by a furious Bebe and accusing Red. "So what's up, boners? Kylie bleed out on us?"

"As a matter of fact," said Kenny as he rose to face Cartman. "He's going to be fine."

"Hah! Right. Even if he did survive Stan's hack job, he's fucked. What the fuck is he gonna do to the zombies with one arm, wave at them? Cause he sure as fuck can't kill them."

"You shut the fuck up about my brother." Ike's voice was low and shaky with emotion. "He's gonna live now, and he'll live a long time after too because he's smart. Smarter than you, you prick."

The cruel humour dropped from Cartman's face, and his eyes darkened.

"What did you just call me?"

Bebe laughed and tossed her hair. "What are you, deaf  _and_  stupid?" She strutted past him, taking Red's hand and pulling her along.

"C'mon, I'm sick of this bastard."

In silent accord Red followed. She smiled kindly at Stan, and then rather shyly at Kenny with a tinge of pink in her cheeks. As she passed Ike on the couch, she ruffled his hair.

"He'll be fine, Ike. You can trust Stan, he's done a good job."

Her voice was soft and sweet, and though the words were not directed at him they tickled in Stan a sense of pride. Ike grinned broadly and cozied closer to his sleeping brother, sitting against him rather than lying next to him. He hugged Kyle's arm like a child clutching a teddy bear, carefully leaning away from the bloody shoulder.

Cartman watched the girls leave sullenly. "Fucking lesbians," he muttered once they had left the room.

Stan decided that he would rather put what energy he had into Kyle's wellbeing instead of fuelling Cartman's tantrum. He put a hand on the sleeping boy's forehead.

And withdrew it with a start when Kyle's eyes fluttered open.

The first thing to flit across Kyle's face was confusion. He blinked slowly, head thick and fuzzy from blood loss. He tried to prop himself up, but the bandaged stump of his shoulder slipped deeply into the cushions of the couch in the absence of his arm and he wound up falling into the armrest. Immediately Ike reached for Kyle.

"Kyle, Kyle you're okay," exclaimed Ike, full of relief. Kyle stared at him, features knit together in laborious thought as he pieced together what had occurred during his unconsciousness.

"…Ike…"

He reached forth to clasp Ike on the shoulders. He faltered and froze when only one arm extended itself. Then he looked to his side, where the blood-soaked bandages wound over the bleeding stump on his shoulder.

No one breathed a word. With an expression of stone, Kyle placed his hand on the reddening spot. A single, rattling breath filled the silence.

"Need a hand?" jeered Cartman.

Never had Stan wanted to strangle another human being so badly. "I swear-" he muttered as he stormed towards the despicable boy, fists clenched. Kenny made as though to hold him back, but thought better of it.

"Stan, don't."

Only Kyle's voice could have pulled Stan from his blinding rage. Reluctantly, he stopped in his tracks.

"As a matter of fact, I do need a hand. Cartman, come over here," said Kyle, his tone unreadable.

Looking confused and more than a little disappointed at the lack of reaction, Cartman slowly ambled over. Stan gawked at Kenny, who shrugged back equally confused.

Ike immediately protested. "No, I can help you! Lean on me!" he stood up and tugged at Kyle gently, but the older brother remained seated. He waited for Cartman to draw near till he rose, the offset of his balance making him wobble precariously. Seeing this, Cartman smirked. Kyle concentrated, stilled himself.

**_SMACK_ **

And promptly punched Cartman's fat face.

The hit had so much momentum that Kyle toppled forward, Ike catching him seconds before his nose crushed into the floor. Cartman reeled back with a yowl like an angry cat, landing smack on his rotund bottom.

" _Shit, you motherfucker!"_

"You can rot in Hell," Kyle's face was bloody murder, his voice a dark storm as Ike helped him to his feet. "Before you make me feel like anything less than what I was before."

Cartman was bawling and clutching at his cheek, which sported a nasty looking red mark. The look of fury he sported was absolutely humourous. Kenny outright laughed, clutching his sides as he doubled over.

"Dude-dude oh my god- that was-the  _best_!" Kenny's voice cracked as roaring laughter took over his words.

Stan was awestruck. In wake of having his arm crudely chopped off not two hours ago, Kyle had to be in serious pain. Then, confirming his cognition, Kyle gasped in agony and shut his eyes. His body curled and tensed, and Ike looked up to Stan nervously.

"What should we do?" asked the dark haired boy, arms flung protectively around his brother.

Stan assumed order, striding towards the writhing boy on the floor. "Get him back on the couch, but gentle. Gentle! He's going to be in serious pain for the next few days."

They lay him gently back on the ratty couch, armless shoulder up so there would be as little pressure on the wound as possible. With every movement Kyle inhaled sharply, trying and failing to conceal vehemently biting against the inside of his cheek to swallow the hurt. Ike winced with every breath, and his touch grew lighter and lighter until Stan was certain he was supporting Kyle's full weight, leaning him against the frayed cushions that held very little softness since the years past. Kyle would not look at him even as he carried him, a look of shame shadowing his eyes. He kept drifting towards the spot of amputation, then abruptly darting away, as though the mere act of looking at the wound incurred it to sting.

"You were bitten, you know." Stan found himself unable to look at Kyle when he said the words. His own sense of niggling guilt prevented it. "I wouldn't have…done it…unless you were going to die. You know one bite's a death sentence."

Kyle was silent. Then he wretched his head forward, stifling hisses of pain with an ugly grimace. "Kenny, Cartman. Take up watch. We need eyes up there- _ah_ -at all times."

Like a dutiful knight Kenny moved immediately for the door. But Cartman lay like a useless lump on the floor, thick hands splayed over his face like a child, unresponsive to Kyle's command. Kenny faltered when he saw that the large boy was unmoving, and looked at Stan incredulously.  _Can you believe this guy?_

Revolted, Stan stormed over and kicked Cartman with a very small amount of restraint. "Get up," he said, with all the inflection and mannerisms of talking to a pile of shit.

Slowly Cartman righted himself upwards. He remained uncharacteristically quiet, but glowered hotly at Stan as he tromped to the ladder and climbed upwards sourly. Stan watched him go, a gradual fury building in his chest. Then Kenny leaped on the ladder and swung upwards like a monkey, giving Stan a gleaming wink before he disappeared over the rooftop, and some of the heaviness in Stan was lifted.

Now that it was just the three of them, the room seemed much larger and very empty. There were so many things Stan wanted to say, but he didn't know where to start.

"Kyle, I-"

"I know it was you."

"W-what?"

Shifting in an attempt to find comfort, Kyle rested his head in his arm. "You would...have wanted to put him out…of his misery."

_Oh._

Ike stared at Kyle incredulously. "What are you talking about Kyle?" he asked nervously.

Kyle closed his eyes. There was a finality on his face, weariness aging him, and a terrible, terrible tiredness. Not the sort brought about after excitement or blood loss, but the tiredness of an old man who had seen more than he had wished in life, and who had exhausted everything he had ever wanted from it.

"Kyle?"

Stan put a hand on Ike's shoulder, but it offered little comfort. He gazed upon Kyle's pale face, still and silent, but awake. Another troubling thought crossed his mind.

"Did Ike know? Kyle."

Kyle did not answer.  _Stubborn ass._

Stan took a deep breath, and dove into the heart of the conflict.

"If you don't start treating Ike like an adult," said Stan, making the words a threat, "then I will. He  _deserves_ to know these things. God, how could you keep his own father from him?"

"Shut u-"

"What? What is he talking about?!" Ike spun around, utterly bewildered. "Dad? What about Dad? Is he-"

"No," said Stan quickly. He didn't want to fill Ike's head with that kind of hope. "No, he's…he's gone."

Ike's face fell. "I already  _knew_  that."

"Yeah," said Stan carefully. "But did you…did you know that he was still a zombie? Until recently, I mean."

Ike was growing frustrated and angry. "Well, yeah, what else would he be?"

"Dead, or, uh, inanimate I guess. Whatever it's called when the brain gets destroyed," explained Stan unhelpfully, feeling foolish.

"Kyle, why is he telling me this?"

There was fear in the question. But Stan had never heard Ike sound so severe.

Kyle had caught the intonation too. He opened his eyes. Eased himself up, and Ike did not protest for him to lay back down. The boy was deathly serious, so serious that the previous near-death matter held no weight in the present. His blue eyes were fixated on Kyle's green, grass and sky staring endlessly into one another. Kyle licked his cracked lips.

"I'm not working on a second shelter. Not yet, at least. I was…visiting Dad."

Ike squinted. "Dad's dead."

"I know, I knew…"

"Then why? You were visiting his zombie?"

Kyle was expressionless. He looked at Stan. "Do I have to do this?"

Stan did not honour him with an answer. Kyle sighed, pressed his lips into a thin line, looking very much like he regretting that little slip of the tongue to Stan, and then continued.

"It was only,  _only_  when I felt overwhelmed. I talked to him. Pretended that he was listening. Christ, Stan, why does he need to know this? He's not alive…this isn't going to change anything."

"Maybe not. But he's your brother, he deserves to know."

"You _talked_  to it?" said Ike, looking upon Kyle with growing unhappiness. "Why…why didn't you just come to me?"

Kyle shook his head, regretting his words. "No, I'm not going to push my problems onto you. You're too young."

Ike shut up, his mouth pressed into a hard line. He swallowed whatever response that had leaped into his throat and looked to Stan helplessly.

Stan took hold by the reins. He wasted no time in snapping and setting off with breakneck speed.

"For fuck's sake Kyle, he's not  _stupid_!"

Kyle startled, mouth open with a retort, but Stan plowed right through him.

"Ike's got more brains than half the people surviving here put together, he's brave enough to look for food at night, and he'd be able to do more if you fucking  _taught him how to do shit_. He's your brother, but you treat him like a toddler, for god's sake. What's he gonna do if something happens to you? What if you got bit down in South Park, alone? What if I wasn't here to cut the bite off and you turned? Answer me."

Kyle did not. He couldn't.

 _"_ Ike's got you, which is a damn sight more than most of us got, but you're not protecting him, shutting him up like this. You're digging his grave."

There was more Stan could have said, but he decided to leave it. Losing an arm in itself was trauma enough for anyone to undergo in a day. This was a delicate game he played, tapping at Kyle's weak spots with well-placed words. The aim was to bend his will, not break it. Even now he was worried he had pushed too far. Kyle was silent now, almost blank, like the person behind his eyes had vanished.

"Is that…how you feel?" Kyle looked at Ike, all authority drained from him. Rather, the words were full of astonishment.

Ike averted his gaze, bit his lip nervously, then looked back up. Stan noticed that while Kyle lay down, he and Ike were exactly the same height. Ike took a breath, and with what must have been a flinging leap of faith, spoke.

"Kyle, I love you. I really do. But you think I'm stupid, you don't trust me with  _anything_ , and it really, really sucks sometimes. You make me feel like I can't do anything right, and I'm trying,  _really hard_ , I read books and I grow food and-" Ike's voice rose tremulously, "I  _want_ to help, but whatever I do, it's  _never good enough_ , and I  _hate_  it. I want to be like Red and Kenny and Bebe and fight zombies and save lives. I-I want to be like  _you_ , for as long as I can remember, but… but you make me feel like I just c-c-ca-"

Ike's words dissolved into sobs, his eyes red and watery.

"Y-y-you make me feel like I  _can't._ "

Stan quietly backed off from the situation. This had gone too personal for him to interject now, even he knew that.  _Finally Marsh, you got yourself some fucking social graces._ He certainly didn't want to speak for Ike now that the kid had finally found his voice, and he definitely did not want to push Kyle any further. This whole damned ordeal was like doing ballet on a stage littered with land mines.

Then Kyle's single arm reached out and rested in Ike's hair, ruffling it gently. He had to lean forward for the gesture, something that surely cost a great deal of effort. Ike was quivering, tears washing down his face even harder at the touch. Then, suddenly, he flung forward and hugged Kyle hard, clinging tightly with thin arms.

" _Ah!"_

Kyle wracked and stiffened with pain, squeezing his eyes. Ike withdrew swiftly.

"Sorry, sorry!"

"No it's okay," said Kyle quickly, patting his arm clumsily around Ike and bringing him close, but gingerly. "It's okay Ike."

Ike let his arms curl around Kyle one at a time cautiously, then let himself sink into the embrace like soft bedding. His face buried into Kyle's shoulder, who was held him as close as he could bear. Kyle's eyes glistened suspiciously, and Stan was almost certain that his lip quivered for a split second, but after a moment Kyle patted Ike and pulled away to address him in that leaderly fashion that was so accustomed to Kyle's person. But this was different. He looked softer, his eyes weren't so cold.

"Stan, do you mind leaving us for a moment?" The request was just that; a request. "I…there are some things I need to tell Ike. I've got to tell him I'm sorry. Properly. Privately."

"Yeah, sure." Stan managed an awkward smile and wave as he backed out of the situation. It was stiff and formal, but Kyle's intentions were utterly genuine. Ike had a look on his face like he was watching the sun rise for the first time. Stan felt content. He reached the ladder to the roof when Kyle's voice addressed him once more.

"Stan, be careful. And…thanks."

The warm feeling that filled Stan spread a smile across his face, and he paused with his hand on the closest rung. "For sure, dude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the talk!
> 
> That is the longest hiatus I hope to take throughout this story! Sorry about that! I don't mean to turn this section into my own personal diary, but this week was quite stressful with schools and work, and after a few days of fluctuating craziness, I'm back on track.
> 
> You're reviews and reading this mean so much, seriously, I get a little nervous flutter every single time I get a review notification. I'm so grateful for you guys who read and encourage my work, like it's beautiful, I thank you all so much. Writing and posting has become apart of my schedule, which has helped me in my daily life more ways than I can count. It's absolutely great to be posting again.
> 
> On a lighter note, I recently watched the episode "Last of the Meheecans" and Kyle was the leader of the "Mexicans" against Cartman's "Texan Boarder Patrol". I'd completely forgotten! I'm happy that the choice to make Kyle leader was canon as well


	17. Chapter 17

The warm sun hit his face, as he emerged onto the roof. Kenny was sprawled like a cat in the sunlight, noticeably lacking a shirt. His smooth skin tanned gold in the heat, lean muscle and bone contoured in the sharp contrasting shadows. Lounging there, he looked the leader of a pride of lions with his brilliantly tawny hair and lidded eyes. A very handsome picture gilded in gold.

The polar opposite, Cartman sulked further down the roof, back turned. Stan could not see much of the broad boy, but it looked as though his arms were crossed indignantly to match his offended air. Dressed in a messy brown coat that stretched tight over his meaty shoulders and matched his hair, he reminded Stan of a grizzly bear, one that had gotten fat and lazy off of too much honey.

Not wanting to startle Kenny, Stan cleared his throat. Kenny blinked and squinted in the light, raising a hand to block it as he righted himself. When he saw Stan, he smiled broadly.

"Hey dude! You alright? How's Kyle holding up?"

Cartman huffed loudly. Stan ignored him.

"Ah, good, he's good, thanks," he said breathlessly. Perhaps his head was reeling from the heightened emotional drama he'd recently underwent, maybe it was the sight of Kenny's naked torso, but Stan found himself spluttering over words. "They, uh, are just sorting things out. Kyle's not being a dick anymore, I mean, not that he's a dick, he's just finally listening to Ike."

Kenny shrugged. "He's kind of a dick."

"Uh, yeah," laughed Stan, relieved. "He's apologizing. To Ike. I think losing his arm…it kinda shocked some sense into him."

"Y'know, I think you're right." Kenny nodded thoughtfully. "I don't know what's going to happen now. Kyle…he's always been solid. Now he's-"

"A fucking cripple," spat Cartman, heaving his fat body around to view the boy's reactions.

"Okay, how do you even get fat in an apocalypse?" asked Kenny, wrinkling his nose. "There's no food."

"Fuck you! It's muscle!"

"Right, sure," said Kenny, rolling his eyes. He winked at Stan. "Muscle doesn't jiggle."

Cartman huffed to his feet, taking the bait. "Girls like it, they think I'm buff! You're just a faggot."

"What girls? Last I checked, Bebe had too much dignity to let you stick it in her."

"What about Red?" asked Stan curiously, amused by the conversation and taking the role of devil's advocate to keep the entertaining exchange going.

"Red? Pfft, she's too pure to let anyone stick it in her. Fucking virgin whore," Cartman sneered.

Kenny stifled a laugh and glanced at Stan, subtly shaking his head from side to side and smirking lecherously.

Stan blushed furiously, so as to cover his embarrassment he laughed loudly, praying he wasn't coming across as some naive, inexperienced kid.

Oblivious to the silent exchange between the two, Cartman guffawed as well, presumably at his own idea of a clever insult. The fat boy's sheer stupidity and narcissism made Stan laugh more; he clasped Kenny and doubled over, eyes tearing up. Kenny was cracking up, head thrown back handsomely, teeth sparkling in the sun.

"Cartman, you absolute  _fuck!_ " he laughed brilliantly. "You sad, virgin fuck."

Bubble abruptly popped, Cartman scowled and went on the offense. "At least I'm not a man-whore! You'd fuck anything that moves 'cause you have low self-esteem."

Kenny wound down and sighed, a mix of pity and contempt for the fat bitter boy. "What about you Stan? Get any tail after the apocalypse?"

"Tail?" said Stan blankly. He was unsure if Kenny was still teasing, using code words to confuse Cartman further.

"Yeah, y'know, action."

"What, like killing things? Things with tails?"

Kenny burst into laughter again. "No, no dude."

Even Cartman was cackling now. "So, you a virgin or a faggot? Betcha never even kissed a girl!"

The jape did not impress Stan. "How is that even important, at all?"

"You're a loser!"

"I was busy  _surviving_!"

"Haha! Loser fag!"

"Dude," said Kenny, "Lay off."

"Why?!" Cartman seemed genuinely confused. "Even you gotta admit, that's pretty lame. Like, incredibly lame."

"You're such a piece of shit sometimes it amazes me." Kenny turned from Cartman disdainfully. "C'mon, the air's too thick up here. Let's go." Pulling his light shirt over his head, Kenny beckoned to Stan and slipped to hang off the edge of the roof, dangling for a split-second before landing clumsily on all fours. He marveled as Stan glided down with ease, dropping with a muted thud on his feet.

"Shit, you're a ninja."

"Nah," Stan brushed off the compliment. "Lots of practice. I move around a lot. This is actually the first time I've stayed in one place for…over two days."

"The fuck, really? That's incredible."

"Not really, I walk a lot." Stan followed Kenny's lead, the blond trailing around the shelter to the side opposite South Park, closer to the thick forest and leaving Cartman's yowling complaints behind. "Wake up, eat, and go. That's my life in a nutshell."

Kenny picked up a stray rock and chucked it aimlessly at the sky. "Sounds boring."

Stan watched the rock sail through the air and thud against a tree. "You don't really think about boring when it's life or death. Is that safe?"

"Who cares?" Kenny chucked another one, muscles flexing in effort. "Zombies are stupid. If the rock hits a tree, they go to the tree to check out the flying rock. As long as we stay out of the forest, we're fine."

"You're gonna get yourself killed," said Stan half-seriously, eyeing the thick crop of trees warily.

Kenny snorted, a funny look crossing over his face. "So, is it true? You've never kissed a girl?"

They were very far from the shelter now, out of sight. Here, alone with Kenny, the question seemed much more serious and personal. Stan felt suddenly very shy, and took a sudden interest in the state of his boots.

"Uh yeah. I never really met anyone who was…was available. Mostly everyone I met was older than me. Or taken." He remembered the Kansas couple. "Or crazy."

"Damn…"Kenny was so shocked it made Stan feel worse. "Not even once?"

"No. It never really crossed my mind. Why the fuck is it such a big deal?" Stan grew defensive under what seemed like a bombardment of scrutiny, bristling like a cat. But Kenny was oblivious, so caught up in the topic.

"I dunno, I guess it's not really. But it's nice, kissing." He pulled a cheeky grin. "I kissed Bebe when I was thirteen. Kissed Nicole three days later. Got slapped by both of them."

Stan laughed, even though he only recognized one of the names.

"I deserved it, of course. Bebe was fuming, wouldn't talk to me for a month. I, uh-" Kenny trailed off, laughing awkwardly. "Um…I mean, I've kissed Red too. She's a good kisser," he said hastily, managing to scramble together a toothy grin.

"Oh." Stan had the niggling feeling that Kenny meant to say something else. Feeling daring, in this private moment, he divulged in his curiosity. "No one else?"

Kenny pressed his lips together, then looked at Stan remorsefully. "Wendy. It was...years after your family left…"

The feeling that overtook Stan was bizarre. Not heated in jealousy or dampened by sadness. Just a vacant, distant reminder of a childhood dream. He felt empty, and that was weird.  _Who…who had Wendy been to him?_

_A pretty girl with dark hair_

_Dark hair_

_And dark eyes_

_Luminous_

_Intelligent_

_Like a night sky deep blue with no stars_

A deep forlorn longing choked Stan unexpectedly. It was too vivid, the smiling girl that loomed before his mind's eye. Of course, she hadn't died when she was nine. But Stan had no other way to picture her.

Kenny was watching him warily. He looked regretful. "I'm sorry…I remember you two were close."

"It was a long time ago," said Stan dolefully, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Not your fault." He sighed deeply. Wendy had been a distance abstract idea for so long. But here, with his past stripped bare and laid out in front of him, it was all so clear. He and Wendy could have stayed together. They might have broken up in middle school countless times, whenever Stan was being too sensitive or Wendy was too angry. They might have survived high school, gone to prom, he'd have bought her a corsage. Right now they'd be in college. Maybe living in some tiny apartment, going to college, working, finding some way to get by. Spending sleepless nights fretting over bills, getting drunk, complaining, fighting, kissing. Maybe, if things had gone right, he'd be wearing a ring right now.

But instead he stood in the bare field, cool wind and grey skies, with Kenny. Wendy was gone, that dream was shattered ages before it was even realized. The future was bleak and colourless, and the undead were roaming the earth. Nothing was the same.

"Stan? Stan." Kenny's voice knocked on Stan's door. "You're scaring me a bit, dude."

"Sorry." Stan's own voice resounded in his head like an echo chamber. "Being back in South Park…it's very…weird. I forgot…a lot."

Kenny nodded thoughtfully. "I've never left this place, I remember everything. I've always been 'Kenny from South Park' to everyone who's ever known me. Except for you. Shit, you forgot me entirely." Oddly, he did not sound angry anymore.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I mulled it over. It's not so bad." That cheeky grin was back, striking blue eyes twinkling. "You're the first stranger I've met since the apocalypse. It's thrilling." Kenny said the words teasingly, overly romanticizing the moment.

For some reason, Stan flushed. He very suddenly wanted to go back to the shelter, or South Park, or the woods and kill something. But his feet rooted to the spot stubbornly, and instead he laughed too loudly.

"You're the only stranger I've met in South Park," he tried to quip back, feeling ridiculous when he realized his joke wasn't even true. But Kenny smiled anyways. He seemed very close to Stan, hovering inches away. Warmth emanated from him, but for some reason Stan still felt shivery.

"Can I kiss you?"

The question knocked the wind out of Stan.

"What?"

"It's the end of the world. We could get ripped to shreds by zombies at any moment. Do you really wanna die the kiss-less wonder?"

The world was dizzying, spinning out of focus. Stan licked his lips in panic, and Kenny leaned closer.

"I, uh-"

A strong hand held his cheek, and Stan's mouth was engulfed in sweet softness.

It did not last very long, only a second or two. But it was very gentle, and it set Stan's head spinning. Kenny withdrew, hand still framing Stan's face. His eyes were deep as the ocean.

"What d'you think?"

Stan's mind was plunged in a strange, thick fog, making clever a cognition nearly impossible.

"Uh, warm."

"Warm," repeated Kenny, clearly amused. "And?"

"Weird."

"Why?"

"It was…" Stan was trying to figure out exactly what was going on inside him. It was a strange, loud, violent collaboration of things he had never experienced before. "…I, uh, I don't think I like dudes."

"Well there you go! You learned something today." Kenny was grinning, clearly proud of himself. "Just think, you might've died without ever knowing. That's important."

Stan nodded absently. "Can I…try again?" he mumbled, still curious about the sensation. Two seconds was just a fleeting peek through the window, and he wanted to open the door.

The question pleasantly surprised Kenny. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, that funny smirk still etched on his mouth. "Go for it, cowboy."

Now Stan could take his time, absorb the moment. Unsure of himself, he stretched his neck forward and immediately felt awkward. Was he supposed to lean with his whole body, or would that be too much? He didn't want to mash himself into Kenny's face like a hungry animal. So instead he let his fingers guide him.

They grazed Kenny's jaw, the sensitive tips splaying over warm skin. He felt the scratchy beginnings of stubble, so blond it was invisible unless he really looked at it. Mouth twitching, Kenny remained motionless, allowing Stan the freedom of uninhibited discovery.

Finally Stan's hands settled, one on Kenny's shoulder and the other cupping beneath his ear, fingers tangling in tawny hair. Kenny was taller than him by a little bit, forcing him to creep up on his toes, which made Stan feel slightly emasculated, but it wasn't enough to discourage him. He eyed Kenny's mouth with decisiveness, and perhaps a hint of fear. In this world, the mouth was deadly. Filled with infection, ravenous, inhuman. But never pink, and certainly never as still as Kenny's were. They didn't do so much as tremble, and curved beautifully.

Stan realized he was thinking too much. He held his breath and took the plunge.

And collided smack into Kenny's nose.

"Dude," mumbled Kenny as he stifled laughter, "Tilt your head."

Stan could feel the warm breathe against his face Kenny was so close, and he realigned. Kenny's lips met his once again, and this time Stan held it longer. He realized that Kenny would wait for him to withdraw, and he became nervous that he was taking too long. Kenny's expression was a mystery, Stan did not remember closing his eyes. But as the moment settled and his heart stopped trying to burst from his rib cage, the intimacy of the moment swelled. Stan's guard was down, his senses shut off and his brain a million miles away. Something in the back of his mind prodded at something uncomfortably, that nothing as good as this came without cost. Kenny was manipulating him, Kenny wanted something, Kenny should not be trusted. He had to be; nobody was this perfect.

With these suspicious thoughts he withdrew. Kenny's eyes searched him, looking for a reaction, and Stan could see the faint confusion in them at his abrupt withdrawal. Stan tried to see a killer, a liar, a manipulator. But all he saw was a golden haired boy with blue eyes. All he saw was Kenny.

The revelation drew him in again, and this time he pressed his lips to Kenny's with yearning. Caught off guard, Kenny made a muffled exclamation before softening into the kiss. It was nice and sweet and short, and it didn't stir the fire that Stan had imagined it might have. There was no burning lust, no want to touch or grope. It was more a desire to be felt. He wanted someone to remember him, leave some sort of mark on the world, on a person. Before South Park, he might have died and nobody would have known or cared. But with Kenny so close, it validated his existence. He mattered now.

"Yeah, dude, I'm not gay," said Stan with certainty as he withdrew, feeling happy.

"Way to be, buddy," Kenny held out his fist, and after some thought, Stan bumped it with his own. "Y'know, Cartman's the only asshole back there who has a problem with homosexuals. No one else would care."

"Gotcha. I'm sure, though."

"So then," Kenny grinned cheekily. "Bebe or Red?"

Now Stan felt butterflies. Red was soft and demure and lovely, and she definitely stirred something deep in Stan. But Bebe…Stan didn't know why he was even thinking about her. Bebe was a firecracker. Brash and tough, she took no bullshit. The way her blonde hair frizzed around her face made her look feral, her unnaturally red lips made her fierce. Thinking of her brought about another question.

"What's up with Bebe's lips?" asked Stan. "Are they really that red?"

"Nah, she probably paints them with blood of her enemies or something."

The thought made Stan's skin crawl. "Sick. I'd believe it."

"So Bebe then? I mean, it seems like she fascinates you enough."

"No way dude. She'd probably kill me afterward."

"You'd die a happy man."

"Not worth it."

"Alright," Kenny rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "Red then. Good choice."

Stan snorted. "There's only two of them."

"Yeah, and Red's a good choice. Bebe too, but I don't think she's quite your type. Shit, what is your type? It ain't me, but that's all I know."

"There was a girl," Stan remembered slowly "When I was fourteen. I only knew her by sight, her dad was batshit crazy over protecting her from outsiders. I had the stupidest crush on her."

"Oh really?" asked Kenny, interested.

"Yeah, I wanted to join this group, but they were all from the same AA program and were worried I'd disrupt their 'flow'." The memory left a bitter taste, the group's blank faces, guns aimed at Stan warning him to leave, or else. "She had brown hair and really nice brown eyes. They were super big, I could see them from the window where her dad kept her. I don't know, but, I think she wished they'd let me stay." The more he thought on it, the more he realized that the face of the girl was blurred with Wendy's features.

"Course she did, you're a catch. One look at that face and she'd have been head over heels."

Stan punched Kenny to conceal his bashfulness. "Fuck off."

"I'm just fucking with you dude, chill." Kenny cuffed him back, boxing Stan's ear.

"You chill," said Stan, playfully sparring back. Then Kenny went at him again, Stan ducking and weaving, and the two fell into playful roughhousing.

The differing upbringings were obvious in the way each boy fought. Though Kenny was quick, Stan's reflexes were much more trained and precise. He took the offense, backing Kenny closer to the forest with soft, but cleverly placed jabs and kicks. Soon he was breathing hard, but there was a smile on his face. Kenny too, breathing open mouthed as sweat beaded on his brow, but a glint of determination in his eyes. They ducked and weaved and swung with friendly rivalry, tripping over the rocky ground.

There was no more talking, and it was perfect. Stan was not even forming cognitive thoughts anymore, let the familiarity of combat overtake his muscle memory. He spun, kicked, swung a fist into Kenny's guarding forearms. Instinct told him,  _get through the guard_ , and he landed a kick to the soft of Kenny's stomach. When the tanned boy doubled over and clutched the spot Stan struck, punching directly into the hardness of Kenny's jaw. Too late Stan realized the strength of the hit, forgetting in the moment that the fighting was play.

Kenny cried out as he was send reeling backwards. Stan froze, mortified when he saw the harsh red mark colouring the lower half of Kenny's face. Kenny cursed, holding his hand against the tender spot.

"Oh shit," said Stan as he ran to Kenny's side. "Dude I'm so sorry!"

" _Motherfucker,_ " Kenny's words were thick and muffled, "Ah shit,  _fuck,_  you punch  _hard!_ "

"Sorry," said Stan quickly, "I just stopped thinking. I went for the head, I'm sorry, fuck, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm-"

A low growl, deep and foreboding as the beginnings of an earthquake, interrupted Kenny. Stan's breath caught in his throat when he saw the undead man staring blankly in their direction from the edge of the forest.

It's eyes were the colour of putrid milk, open mouth sending waves of rotting breath rolling over Stan and making him want to gag.  _Fresh_ , thought Stan as he noticed the barely torn clothing, the waxen, greying skin that was not yet consumed by decay.  _Close, too close_ was the next thought. The zombie couldn't be ten feet away, near enough to catch a scent.

"Shit." Kenny could not have whispered the word more quietly, but Stan saw fresh blood bubbling over his lips and his heart stopped. Zombies could catch a blood scent. Kenny must have known that; he grimaced and swallowed the blood back, his throat bobbing and making Stan shudder. Kenny locked eyes with Stan.

"You gotta run dude," he whispered urgently.

Startled, Stan vehemently shook his head. He crept in front of Kenny, shielding him from the zombie. His brain whirred and whistled.  _No weapon, find something._  There were broken branches, loose rocks, nothing large or substantial enough. His bat was in the shelter. Knife, his knife! Stan felt in the side of his boot, feeling a rush of relief when his fingers curled around the sleek handle. He pulled it out and held it offensively, the blade glinting.

"What are you doing?" hissed Kenny, struggling to stand. Stan turned and gave him a hard look. Either Kenny had never had to stealth past a zombie before, or he was really bad at it. His voice was too loud, and his movements were clumsy and disoriented, admittedly a result of being punched in the head.

"Stay there." Stan did little more than mouth the words, then he turned and crept toward the zombie. It still had not moved, and Stan thanked whatever gods that might be listening that he was upwind of the monster. Blade out, he advanced slowly.

" _Dude,"_  whispered Kenny.

Gritting his teeth, Stan turned around, and faltered.

There was another one, loitering around the edge of the forest like a stiff, stupid piece of driftwood. All mangled limbs and peeling flesh, it was eerily still. Kenny eyed it uneasily, steadily gathering himself to stand. It was horribly obvious that Kenny was unarmed and unsettled, blinking and looked around with jerky motions.

"There's two of them."

"Shut up."

"Stan you gotta run."

"No," said Stan, glancing from Kenny to the looming zombie. "They'd chase us back to the shelter, leave a scent for others. We gotta kill 'em."

He was unsure of how close he could get before the zombie would smell him. It was fresh, so it was fast. Stan would have to outsmart it. He crept closer, forcing himself to move slowly. The world spun with hyper speed around him, he tried to pretend like he was crawling through molasses. Even slower, he had to pinpoint the exact moment the zombie noticed him. He took a long, intentional breath, and slowed even more.

The zombie's head snapped suddenly towards Stan. Without thought he charged it, plunging the blade through a soft eye socket and twisting. It dropped with a phlegmy, guttural groan, twitching and shuddering with finality before going still.

Wrenching the knife out, Stan darted back to Kenny. He stopped in horror when he saw Kenny, fists up, sparring recklessly with the other zombie.

The golden haired boy had a fixed aggression on his face. He swung at the outstretched limbs, batting them away and throwing the zombie off balance. But it still lurched forward, hungry mouth gaping, shifting from a crawl to a shuffle to a broken, shambled run. It lunged forward stupidly, Kenny flung his arms up to shield himself so that rather than his neck, the zombie's mouth snapped shut around Kenny's guarding forearm.

It was like watching a dog struggling with a chew toy. Kenny tugged back but the zombie held stubbornly, tearing away strips of flesh exposing the rawness underneath. Panic surged through Stan and he bolted, plunging his knife through the rotting ear canal and straight into what brains the zombie had left. It stopped moving, but it's jaws remained rigidly clamped around Kenny, teeth sinking deeper into the skin. Full-blown terror seized Stan, and he grabbed the head and tried to wrench it off Kenny with a frenzied burst of strength. Kenny screamed as decaying teeth raked through his skin, leaving angry red wounds. They stuck in the thick muscle, and Stan yanked again, praying that Kenny would forgive him when this was all over. Another roar of pain erupted from Kenny as Stan finally ripped the jaws off, a sizable chunk of Kenny still flapping between them.

Stan seized Kenny's underarms and dragged him upward. "It's gonna be okay, we can save you," he muttered, trying to reassure Kenny. But a terrible pit sank in his stomach. They were so far from the shelter.

"Shit, shit  _shit_." Stan heard Kenny cursing. He wriggled out of Stan's grasp and backed away, holding the bloody arm close to him. His face was ashen, powdery white. When he looked at Stan, his blue eyes were fearful.

Kenny's arm was grotesque. Shiny and raw, blood bursting forth from around the ragged flesh, flaps of torn skin shredded and ruined around the bite. It was the worst Stan had ever seen. The strength of the zombie's bite increased tenfold after Stan killed it, seizing rigidly around Kenny's arm in death. He should have gotten the zombie off of Kenny before killing it. No, he shouldn't have punched Kenny in the face in the first place. He should have been more careful. He shouldn't have left him defenceless, he should have listened to Kenny. They should have run, but they didn't, and now Kenny was bitten. It was all his fault.

The pool of red increased at an alarming rate. Kenny's legs wobbled and he fell to the ground. The sudden movement jolted Stan from his rumination.

"Kenny, Kenny you gotta stay with me man. C'mon." Stan shook the boy furiously. Hastily, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and ripped off his shirt, binding the fabric around the gushing wounds. The cold air nipped at his bare skin, but Stan barely felt it. Kenny's eyes were rolling around in their sockets hazily, as though he could not discern what he was seeing.

"S…Sta…."

"Dude I'm here. I'm here Kenny." A drop of something wet fell onto Kenny's white face, and Stan realized he was crying. "It's going to be okay," he lied.

"I'm…no…I…"

"Shh, it's okay, just rest." Stan swallowed the growing lump in his throat. "Just close your eyes. It's gonna be fine."

Still Kenny struggled, blue lips forming silent words as his eyelids fluttered. He breathing grew shallow, chest heaving like it took every bit of strength left to keep his heart pumping.

"Stan…th…bi…."

His lips trembled. A white hand clutched Stan's own, cold. Stan squeezed it back, unable to stop himself from gripping as tightly as possible. Whether or not he was hurting Kenny went unregistered.

"It'll be okay," said Stan again, his voice cracking. "I'm going to make sure it's okay." With one hand he held onto Kenny for dear life, the other curling deliberately around his knife. There was nothing inside of him. He was empty, hollow.

"Plea…se…wait…I…."

He would wait for Kenny's eyes to slide shut.

"Th…the bi…bite…"

It would be quick, painless.

"I…it…won't…"

It would be a mercy.

"…inf…infec…"

Stan bit his lip so hard he drew blood. The bitter metal taste wet his tongue. He raised the knife. Kenny was very nearly gone, mumbling indiscernibly, slipping from reality. His own hand quivered tremulously, but he forced it steady. Just one swift motion and it would be done.

"W…ait…wait…WAIT!"

With a burst of adrenaline Kenny strained upwards, his voice a hoarse, strangled scream. Stan startled back, lowering the knife. With his good arm, Kenny seized Stan's bare shoulder and squeezed with the strength of a desperate man. His eyes pierced Stan's. They were unwavering and clear as crystal.

" _I'm. Immune_."

The words were rough and low, growled more than spoken, but unmistakable. Stan could not think of words. He could not think. It was unheard of, impossible. Nobody who got bit survived. Everyone turned. That was the law of the new world.

But if it was true, it changed everything.

A blankness overtook Kenny's face and he slumped forward, the unconscious weight of his body pinning Stan to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, two guys kissed. Let it be clear that I am not striving to make this a romance plot. In my head, I like to think that with the fall of society also comes the fall of traditional societal meanings behind certain things. In western culture, a kiss on the lips is usually reserved for two people who are romantically involved with each other. I wanted to strip away the obligatory romantic connotation and tried to use the kiss to further flesh out what kind of people Stan and Kenny have become.
> 
> I also have zero tolerance for homophobia, if you are made uncomfortable by two guys kissing (romantic or not), I do not invite you to continue reading this fic.
> 
> Aaahh, now that formalities are out of the way, damn! Goddamn. Y'all are finally going to find out Kenny's deal. I know that's been a subject of curiosity for a lot of you!
> 
> And thank you all so so much for being wonderful reviewers, and also for your concern and kindness to my vague, personal situation. I appreciate it so much, have a wonderful day!
> 
> Edit: You guys are seriously the best. I've had issues with homophobia in the past, absolutely nothing from you guys. Rock on, you decent human beings you!


	18. Chapter 18

It was the most grueling, torturous task Stan had ever undergone, waiting for Kenny to open his eyes. He had dragged the bitten boy towards the nearest tree and propped him against it, the wounded arm resting on a low hanging pine branch to stop the bleeding. With the remains of his shirt he tied Kenny's other wrist to the tree, choosing the thickest branch to wrap the material around and knotting it tightly. He didn't want to doubt Kenny's words, but a little extra precaution never hurt.

 _Immune._  Stan felt like gravity was turned off. His stomach flip-flopped nauseously and his mouth was dry. He didn't want to think the word, it wrought his heart fast and fluttery as a hummingbird's wing. Never, in ten years of bloody, cruel survival, had he ever heard of it. Did the others know? If they did, why would they keep it from him? They had told him about Tweak easily enough. Did they not trust him, was that it? A bitter taste rose in the back of Stan's throat, like biting into a medicine pill. Perhaps they had meant to tell him, but then Kyle had gotten bit and everyone's priorities shifted.

If they didn't know, then things were infinitely more complicated. Kenny had buried the secret of the century. What would he say to Stan when he woke up?

If he woke up.

Stan hadn't taken his eyes off of Kenny for an instant. He noted every faint movement of Kenny's, the frailness of his chest, moving up and down in the slightest hint of life. There had been a moment when the breathing stopped, sending electric dread coursing through Stan. It was all he could to do stay where he was, clutching the knife with sweaty palms. For a full minute Stan stared at the unmoving body. Then, with a miraculous startled gasping, Kenny began sucking air into his lungs again. He still seemed to be unconscious, the whites of his eyes flashing briefly before slumping over. A lock of golden hair curled down over Kenny's eyes, breezing gently whenever he exhaled. Stan watched it flutter, allowing himself to slip in and out of his own thoughts, always noting the unruly strands out of the corner of his eye.

Til sunset. He would wait until sunset for Kenny to wake. By then symptoms of the turn would be apparent, if Kenny was indeed infected. A cold sweat, uncontrollable shivers, unconsciousness. Hardly notable symptoms, more suggestive of the flu or the common cold, but after ten years Stan knew how to discern the difference. There was no way to tell how much time had passed exactly, but Stan dared to wonder whether or not too much time had gone by for Kenny to be infected.

Fall was coming, surely. The scent of crisp leaves was in the air, sweet and fresh, the wind tearing them from tree branches and scattering them all over the ground. Rubbing himself brusquely, Stan longed for a soft sweater. The inside of his leather jacket was sleek and still cool to the touch from the nippy air, raising uncomfortable goosebumps. He forced himself to stand it, it certainly was not the coldest he had ever been, nor the most discomforting. But the yellow and red leaves blew through the air, and the bitter, unrelenting wind reminded him of a time, very long ago, when he had been forced to endure the cold at a very young age.

_The teachers always made them go outside, even in the snow. It wasn't so bad, save but the first cold day when no one had brought a coat._

_Warmth fled overnight and frost sparkled in the air_

_Icy dragon breath cloying skyward, exhaled from blue lips_

_He shivered in his shirt, arms slipped out of their sleeves and wrapped around his bare torso beneath. They were beneath the slide, he, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny, hiding from the wind. Cheeks sharply red where the cold slapped them. Cartman complaining loudly, goading Kenny into lending him his orange parka._

_Stan wished for it too, but he didn't ask. Kyle neither. Only Cartman was oblivious to Kenny's reluctance, running deeper than the want to stay warm._

_Rather_

_A habit of hidings things_

_from a very young age_

_Bitter wind_

_Acrid words spat_

_Stupid teacher_

_Old cow_

_And then the bell rang, kids thundering back indoors, warmed by a collective sigh of relief_

No bell would ring for Stan. It was entirely up to him when he would decide to retreat to somewhere else. He hated the thought. He was too fallible, and this time he would not be the only one hurt by a mistake. Sunset was a ruse, his choice disguised by an act of nature. If sunset came and Kenny remained still, would he wait longer? He didn't know.

Lucky for him, he didn't have to make the choice.

With a sudden bout of coughing, Kenny's head rose and he blinked sluggishly. Stan swore in that moment his heart stopped. He saw that Kenny's eyes were still blue, not consumed by a swirling white fog, made vivid against his pallor like the ocean on a tundra shore. In that moment they had never been more beautiful. Colour slowly returned to his face, taking away the deathly, haggard look and making him look more a boy than a corpse, and as his cognitions returned to him he looked at Stan with puzzlement.

"Dude…did you tie me…to a tree?"

"You're alive." Stan did not know whether to sound stunned or accusing.

Realization flickered through Kenny's face. He seemed equally surprised by the statement.

"Yeah, you-you didn't kill me. I, uh, got bit, right?"

"Right."

"And, um," Kenny assessed himself quickly, almost humorously, like he wanted to diffuse the tension. "I'm not a zombie. At least, I don't think I'm a zombie. I mean, I could just be really smart for a zombie. And lively."

"You said you were immune." Stan's senses slowly came back to him.

The smile slid from Kenny's face. "Right. I was afraid of that. Ah, shit. Okay." He tugged weakly against the makeshift, fabric restraints, clearly still dizzy from blood loss. "How about you cut me loose, and I explain myself a bit better."

"Are you gonna run?"

The question bewildered Kenny, and he looked hurt. "What? Where did that come from?"

"I thought I knew you," said Stan. "I trusted you. We-we…" Stan's thoughts fluttered over the intimate moment, "…I thought we were friends. You didn't tell me anything." Now that he was speaking to Kenny, Stan realized just how bitter the deceit was, and his voice rose in frustration. "The one thing that's wiping people off the face of the Earth doesn't even scratch you. This whole thing, it's just a joke to you. A joke."

"Dude, you gotta let me explain."

Stan threw down his hands, exhausted. "Then explain."

Kenny blanched. He looked uncomfortably beneath Stan's unwavering glare, humourless, for once.

"It's not a pretty story."

"I don't care."

"Okay," Kenny blew a puff of air, "Okay, okay."

"I found out when I was twelve, I think. I was being stupid, went off on my own to look for guns, and fell off a roof. Some zombie, I think it was Craig's dad actually, got me on the leg. I…" Kenny faltered. "You're not going to like me for this."

Stan was through with Kenny's ridiculous stalls. "That's fine, because keeping secrets is what you're best at," he said coldly. "Right."

"Well, I hid it." Kenny's face was awash with shame. "I wrapped it up and went back to the group like nothing happened."

To hear it was a slap in the face.

"You got bit and  _went back_?"

"I know! Fuck, let me talk. I was scared, okay? I didn't want to leave the group, and I knew if I told someone, I'd be put down. I mean, Christ, I was  _twelve_. I didn't want to die. I told myself I'd just crawl away when the symptoms kicked in, or maybe I'd find the guts to put a gun in my mouth, and believe you me, I felt guilty. But I was too weak, I couldn't do the right thing, I was wrong. But then, if it wasn't painfully obvious already, I didn't turn. That was the worst night of my life, waiting for the fever to kick in. Didn't sleep a wink. But then morning came, and I was still me. I thought maybe I was dead, and this was what happened. You just relived the last moments of your life over and over, something stupid like that. But the bite was still there."

Kenny rolled up the leg of his pants clumsily with one arm. His finger traced over a faded white line, curved in a jagged crescent. Stan had to squint to see it properly, and in the fleeting sunlight it disappeared completely.

"Right there's where the bastard got me. I didn't change pants for two months, just rolled 'em down whenever I had to shit or piss. If anyone found out, or even suspected, I'd have been shot on the spot. So, yeah, I kept it a secret."

Stan shook his head. "You're a coward."

"Do you not think I know that?"

"That's despicable. If you weren't immune-"

"I fucking  _know-_ "

"NO YOU DON'T!" Stan roared, shaking. "What the fuck do you think happened to Camp Colorado? They just left the fucking gates open? I had friends there. I was alone, they took me in. There were good people in that camp! We were gonna make it. And then…." he glared at Kenny, "…some guard got bit and fucked it up for everybody else."

"Okay, fine I get that, but give me a FUCKING BREAK! I WAS A  _KID_!"

" _SO – WERE - THEY!"_

Stan shut up. His teeth crushed the inside of his mouth, drawing blood. It was good to focus on, otherwise he was like to say something regrettable.

Emotional exhaustion combined with the previous blood loss, and Kenny looked fit to pass out again. Dark lines streaked under his eyes, and it was a struggle for him to keep his gaze.

"You look ready to kill me," he chuckled under his breath, sadness fixed in his grin. "C'mon, give it a go. Do the group a favour."

Stan was silent. He swiftly drew his knife and sauntered forward. With one slick motion he slashed through the cloth binding, letting Kenny's arm fall like dead weight.

Rubbing the raw spot around his wrist, Kenny looked at Stan with confusion. "You're just gonna let me go?"

Stan walked away from him.

"Where are you going?"

_Away from you_

Kenny struggled to his feet. "You're leaving me here?"

"You've got nothing to worry about."

Stan waited for some snarky retort to trivialize the moment, but there was none. Just a stiff nothing. The temptation to turn around and run to Kenny was unbearable. The boy was alive, this boy that he felt so strongly for. There was nothing Stan wanted more than to embrace him tightly, feel the beating heart against his own. But his suspicions choked him, and he let the silence grow between them, tangling like weeds in the air until there was no way through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but they're beginning to balance out. The format is falling into a natural long-short-long-short pattern, which I think is a nice change of pace.
> 
> Man oh man, I had Kenny's situation planned out, but Stan's reaction just took on a life of it's own. I'm pissed, like Stan, forgive the dude! But life isn't that simple, not for Stan at least.
> 
> As a side note, if you're subscribed to me as an author, you've probably noticed I'm posting short stories in another category. Don't worry, this story is still my main priority! Short stories help with writers block and keep my writing fresh, so they actually act as a sort of aide to this story
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I'll be updating shortly
> 
> Edit: fixed typos courtesy of Pen and Paper 71!
> 
> I'd also like to address the mythos of this story really quick. Yes, Kenny's regenerative powers are greatly threatened by the fact that his mother is now gone. The way I imagined it, the only thing that's changed is is that Kenny can no longer fully reincarnate from his mother's womb, as she is well, decaying. However, according to the show's canon, Kenny is an immortal. That's all I'm going to say...
> 
> Thanks again!


	19. Chapter 19

Stan had walked a long while aimlessly, toying with the sharp blade between his hands when Butters startled him with his name.

"Stan!"

Hands faltered and the blade slipped through Stan's palm, drawing blood. He cursed, bringing the shallow cut to his mouth to suck up the blood.

"Stan, hey buddy!" Butters' face was flushed from running, a childish smile drawn on his lips. "I went for a walk and I feel much better. What are you doin' all the way out here?" A dark cloud of worry passed over his face. "Is Kyle doing alright?"

"Yeah, Kyle's fine," said Stan shortly. He remained focused on the cut, pressing into it painfully with his fingers. Fresh blood bubbled forth and Butters winced.

"Ya cut yourself."

"I know."

"We should go back to the shelter, get ya bandaged up. I was thinking, y'know, how horrible it is that Kyle ain't got his arm anymore. But then I started thinking, if it wasn't for his hand getting cut off, he'd be dead. And that's thanks to you. And I started feeling real grateful instead. Bebe says it's stupid, but I believe in destiny, and I also believe you were meant to find us." Butters fiddled nervously, full of vulnerable emotion. "Heck, I might not be here if it wasn't for you. It was getting' harder to wake up in the morning…but the sky ain't always grey. I know that now."

"That's great, Butters." Stan tried to muster up some enthusiasm for the boy. But his own thoughts were murky, unable to clearly articulate a heartfelt response.

"So what are you doin' out here anyways?"

Stan focused on picking the dirt from under his finger nails with the tip of the knife. "Nothing. Walking."

"Oh. Well, walking's nice."

"Sure is."

"Boy, it's getting dark out here."

"Yep."

"It's scary at night sometimes, but real pretty too. It's just stars and the moon. Sometimes you look up and it's just like before, you know? 'Cause nothing up there changes, really. I dunno, I think it's comforting."

"Yeah."

Before long they were back at the shelter, a dim outline visible in the setting sunlight. The roof was bare, Stan assumed Cartman was inside spinning tales of verbal abuse at the hands of Kenny and himself. _Kenny…_  He wondered if Kenny had made it back yet. Or if would he come back at all. Stan did not plan on spilling Kenny's secret, but if Kenny didn't know that, it was reasonable to assume he'd be reluctant to return. A sickly feeling churned in Stan's stomach as he stepped into the shelter, Kenny's distinct golden hair glaringly absent amidst the crops of brown and blonde. Kyle was reclining on the sofa, looking slightly pained but much healthier. There was a rosiness in his cheeks, and his eyes were bright. Craig sat across from Kyle, a long arm wrapped around Tweak, who shivered violently. Red and Ike were sprawled on the floor playing some sort of card game, Cartman watching over Ike's shoulder, occasionally calling out the cards Ike had to both player's increasing annoyance. Only Bebe and Kenny were missing.

"Kyle!" exclaimed Butters, "You look way better than before!"

Eyes closed, Kyle chuckled weakly at the comment. "I feel like shit."

"You look like shit," Cartman cat-called absently, still focused on Ike's hand.

Stan opened his mouth, but stopped when Butters tugged him.

"Probably better to not give him what he wants."

"Right."

Kenny would have fired something witty back. Stan held his tongue.

"Kyle, things are…good?"

Kyle's hair was even fierier against his pale skin, unruly and faintly sticky with blood. He reached to scratch it, but thought better and instead used his only arm to prop himself up.

"Better. Tired, but that's to be expected. We need to start planning for the raid. Is Kenny with you?"

"No…no we went for a walk, but he wanted to go off on his own for a bit."

Kyle made a funny face. "Huh. Well, I don't want to wait any longer, someone can fill him in. Red, wake up Bebe, everyone else pay attention."

Everyone gathered around Kyle. Tweak kept a firm hold of Craig's shirt, sitting outside of the circle behind the taller boy. He glanced nervously at Stan and curled further into himself, reverting to the meek boy Stan initially knew. Cartman glared right at him with clenched teeth, but Ike patted at the spot beside him, which Stan took with relief. If he was sitting next to anyone, he'd prefer Ike. He noted the extra space between Cartman and Craig, and wondered if that was Kenny's usual spot. Returning with Bebe, Red glanced at the spot forlornly before she took her place.

"Alright, the raid," said Kyle. "I'm setting it for tomorrow, midday. Bebe mentioned sleeping bags, tents, ignore these. We need tools right now, tools and food. I want Tweak to go first to get an idea of how many zombies we'll be dealing with. After that, Craig and Kenny cover for Bebe, Stan, and Ike. Red'll stand by with the gun, in case of emergency. And I emphasize, emergency. I don't want a single shot fired unless someone is about to die." Even without his other arm, Kyle was a charismatic and easy to listen to. He gestured broadly, speaking with animation and holding eye contact with the various listeners.

At mention of his name Ike perked up excitedly.

"I'm going?!"

"Yes, you are." Beneath Kyle's smooth-faced authority there was a twinkle of pride. "Does anyone have any objections to the plan?"

"Yeah, why fuck am I not raiding? Everyone knows I fucking slay at zombie slaying."

"No, you don't Cartman."

"Shut up Bebe, nobody cares what you think."

"I have a question." Looming and intimidating, Craig's voice carried over the bickering. "What are you doing in all this?"

Kyle's confidence flickered, and he spoke rather abashedly. "I will be staying here."

"Oh bullshit!"

"Cartman, I am going to strangle you."

"Where do you get off sitting out of your own fucking plan?"

"If you haven't noticed," said Stan, hatred burning in his throat, "Kyle's missing a  _fucking arm_."

"So?" Cartman looked absolutely vile in his conviction. "You chopped it off in the first place! Dick!"

"But you're staying behind too!" interjected Ike

The light dawned on Cartman and he smacked his forehead. "Oh yeah! Yeah, never mind, I don't care anymore. Kyle stays."

Red shook her head. "You're despicable."

Kyle raised his hand. "Alright, that's enough. Leopold, you won't be going either. I don't want to overcrowd this mission. Craig, is your question answered?"

"Yeah."

"Any other comments? Good." Kyle's hand jerked as though to clap with its missing twin. He froze. Glanced down at his hand. Butters winced, and Stan wanted to slap him. With thin lips, Kyle instead pressed it firmly into his thigh. "Who's on food duty tonight?"

The meat was flavourless, like chewing the colour grey. Dinner dragged on, Butters and Ike talking at Stan the entire time. Ike was animated and energetic, babbling on about the raid. Butters was the perfect foil, his renewed brightness fueling Ike in his predictions. Stan tuned them both out. His gaze kept darting to the door, waiting for Kenny to handsomely stumble in, dishevelled and rugged. Praying he would.

Late he joined Red, Ike, and Butters for a card game. It was confusing, and Ike was constantly whispering instructions into his ear, but Stan's mind was elsewhere anyways. Bebe and Kyle were discussing something with low voices and serious looks. Stan tried not to look at them directly, subtly trying to catch hints of what they were saying. Luckily for him, Cartman did a worse job at concealing his own eavesdropping. The large boy was not-so-casually sitting against the couch opposite Stan, forcing Kyle and Bebe to open towards Stan as they blatantly turned their backs to Cartman.

"…not like…you think…"

"…it's…him, he's…only difference…"

"…unlikely…"

"…but…getting dark…"

They stopped talking. Kyle's lip was bit in concern, and Bebe's dramatic features were hardened, impossible to read. Suddenly, Bebe stood up.

"I'm gonna see if I can't drag that clown back here," she muttered as she strapped a gun around her back. "Fuck him…making me worry about his sorry ass…"

Stan immediately turned his head. "I'll go with you."

"No. Nah, thanks. You'd slow me down."

Stan was about to protest, but Red put a hand on his leg.

"She's got this, really. You should rest, you've had a rough day."

The warmth in her words was genuine, and Stan reluctantly settled back on the floor. She gave him a sweet smile, which he nervously returned. Something fluttered in his stomach, and her touch became noticeably warm through his jeans. He missed it when she withdrew.

"Uh, okay," Stan found himself saying.

Bebe sashayed out. Kyle watched her go, his gaze lingering through the window as her figure became smaller with distance.

After cards, there was not much left to do. Ike moved back to Kyle's side, head drooped against his brother's shoulder. There was a chill in the air, so Craig struck flint to spark the makeshift fire pit and poked the smoke hole in the ceiling open with a rifle, his gangly arms making up the difference. The fire cozied the room and Stan scooched closer, tasking himself to stare hard enough at the flames until Kenny's face was completely forgotten. Bebe would find him. Bebe would take care of it.

Someone started singing softly, Butters, Stan guessed. His voice was textured like a violin, light and clear and pleasant to listen to. It helped to distract. It seemed everyone was in need of a distraction. Red's eyes were closed, smiling faintly as auburn shadows danced in her hair. Ike dozed off against Kyle, the latter resting his chin in the boy's wild black hair wordlessly. Craig and Tweak looked a matching set, arms wrapped around one another, bodies pressed close as possible in front of the fire. It seemed that Tweak did not shiver so much when he was near Craig, and he looked almost peaceful. Even Cartman had nothing to say, having fallen dead asleep on the floor and snoring softly.

" _I dreamed a dream, the other night_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John,"_

Butters' voice rose tremulously and dipped low, weaving a melody that made Stan think of sailors far from home.

" _My love she came, dressed all in white_

_Lowlands away,"_

No one spoke. Butters' sang with closed eyes, arms hugging his knees to his chest. The boy seemed miles away, transported to his own world.

" _I dreamed my love, came in my sleep_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John._

_Her cheeks were wet, her eyes did weep,_

_Lowlands away,"_

Something wet slipped down Stan's cheek.

_"_ _She came to me, at my bedside,_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John._

_All dressed in white, like some fair bride,_

_Lowlands away,"_

A girl with dark hair

_"_ _And bravely in, her bosom fair,_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John._

_A red, red rose, my love did wear,_

_Lowlands away,"_

A woman, soft hugs, warm smiles

_"_ _She made no sound, no word she said,_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John,"_

Her husband, brave, loving

_"_ _And then I knew, my love was dead,_

_Lowlands away,"_

Craig drew Tweak closer, pressing his lips to the boy's hair. Hand curled around his shoulder as though he feared Teak might vanish beneath his touch. Tweak curled closer, as though Craig was refuge from the storm.

_"_ _Then I awoke, to hear the cry,_

_Lowlands, lowlands away, me John._

_Oh watch on deck,_

_Oh watch, ahoy,"_

Stan found himself hating them.

_"_ _Lowlands away."_

He noted Red staring wistfully at the couple as well. Her thin lips were straight and tense, eyebrows drawn. The flickering fire drew out her features, exaggerating the round apples of her cheeks, casting dark shadows over her large eyes. She caught him looking at her and smiled nervously, drawing out dimples.

"He'll be fine, you know. Kenny, he has a knack for wriggling out of impossible situations."

_A knack? Or an immunity._

Stan cleared his throat. "Has Kenny ever…had any close calls? With zombies?"

Red laughed. "Oh yes. More than once I could've  _sworn_ he'd got bit pulling some stupid stunt or another, but, all in the name of glory, I suppose." She rolled her eyes. "Or so he says."

Laughing weakly with her, Stan felt sick. So Kenny was a daredevil. Fucking perfect. Like he was actually risking his life, throwing himself at hordes of zombies. That was that then, Kenny had kept his secret.

"Right," said Stan.

Red stood up and patted herself off. "Well, I'm off to bed."

Having finished his song, Butters slipped out of his faraway world. "Yeah, that's a good idea." He grinned sleepily at Stan. "If I'm takin' up the whole bed, just push me over, kay? Believe you me, your back does not want you falling asleep on those couches."

"Thanks."

Tweak whispered something to Craig. The tall boy unwound himself from Tweak and helped the latter to his feet. "We're going too. Good to be rested with a raid tomorrow."

Even as Craig gently ushered Tweak out, the twitchy boy would not stop staring at Stan. With brows so blond they were nearly invisible and hair like a static shock, he looked like a young eccentric Einstein scared out of his wits. He tugged Craig's arm, halting the towering boy. Stan braced himself for the inevitable accusations.

"I'm sorry."

Stan was caught off guard. Tweak sounded so remorseful, eyeing Stan like he was expecting a punch.

"I-sometimes I- oh  _Jesus_ -"

"It's okay," said Stan quickly. He was tired and worried, and not in the mood for a long winded explanation. Anyways with Craig glowering down at him, slim chance he'd shove Tweak's apology back in his face. He was sorely tempted to, but Tweak broke into a smile of relief and the feeling diminished.

"I just- when you asked me-  _Christ-_ you didn't know!"

"Er, no, I didn't. But they filled me in."

"They did?" Tweak was surprised.

Stan fumbled for words, wondering what would be inappropriate. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine with it."

"They told you about Kenny?"

Stan's heart gave a jolt. "Kenny?"

Craig gentle put a hand on Tweak's shoulder, his usually stoic features drawn with worry. "C'mon, let's go, you need re-"

"No!"

Violently, Tweak shook Craig off. He clasp Stan's hands in his own fiercely, his fingers like ice. His eyes were bulging and darted as though watching something terrible, drawing Stan in. With a rattling breath, he spoke with harsh urgency.

"I'm going to tell you the truth."

Stan was bewildered, more than a bit scared. "What's the truth?"

"Kenny's a monster."

Behind him Kyle exhaled tensely. "Tweak, we've talked about this."

"No! No, Stan has to know!"

"What do you mean, monster?" Stan asked cautiously.

"He's a demon, he wears human skin, but he's not human at all. He wants to eat me."

"Ah-wha-?"

"That's enough." Forcefully, Craig steered Tweak around and marched him to the beds. The thin boy twisted and struggled with every step, digging his heels into the floor and flailing wildly.

"Let me speak LET ME SPEAK!"

"You need to calm down." Craig sounded stern, detached, but his dark eyes were filled with pain. "Listen to me, calm down." He grabbed the boy's wrists and pinned them behind his back in one sweeping practiced motion. Frustration brought tears to spring from Tweak's eyes. He spat at Craig. The taller boy didn't blink, but scooped Tweak in his arms.

"He's a monster, you gotta believe me! Please, Stan! STAN!"

Craig left the room wordlessly, muffling Tweak's screams in his shoulder.

Stan looked at Kyle helplessly. He felt sickly, horrible. "I thought he meant his illness, I didn't mean-"

"It's okay. I wish you had been told earlier." Adjusting himself inelegantly, Kyle struggled to sit up. He moved to the end of the ratty couch and gestured for Stan to join him, which Stan did gingerly. "Tweak…he's a decision I struggle with."

"What do you mean?"

"What to do with him. Craig keeps him under control most of the time, but there are moments…he can be a liability."

"Why…" Stan hated himself for even considering the thought. "…Why don't you put him in the storm cellar? Just during his episodes, I mean."

"I tried. It seemed for the period we did that, the episodes became more frequent. And worse. We had to keep him down there for a full day once, to throw a herd off our trail. When we let him out, he'd worn his fingernails down to bloody stumps trying to  _claw_  through the door. Craig always hated the lock ups, but that was the final straw, for all of us."

Stan's stomach flipped. It was too easy to picture Tweak scraping maddeningly at some heavy wooden cellar door, screaming until his lungs burned.

"I don't know how you do it," said Stan. "To be responsible for so many people…I can barely save my own skin half the time."

Kyle sighed wearily. "It's not something I chose, believe it or not."

"Oh?"

"I was looking after Ike. That was my only priority. But so many people needed what I was trying to do. Everyone needed someone to tell them that things were going to be okay. It'd work out in the end. They flocked to me, they thrust their _lives_  in my hands."

"You make it sound like you're the Messiah or something," Stan joked, trying to loosen Kyle up. But the freckly boy remained stoic.

"I was. To them, anyways. Now you're here, and I'm, well..." Kyle placed a hand gingerly over his stump.

Stan frowned deeply. "What? No! Don't think like that, dude."

Kyle was silent. He bowed his head, thick red curls falling over his face.

"Dude, talk to me, c'mon," Stan begged.

Sniffing loudly, Kyle released a long-winded breath.

"Sorry. It's just…I can't be weak in front of them. It's different with you. You don't expect anything of me."

Despite the seriousness of the words, Stan laughed. "I don't know what to expect of you. I don't really  _want_ anything from you. I mean, like, to survive. Like I said, I can save my own skin."

"You have no idea how relieving it is to hear that."

A moment passed while the two boys sat in each other's company, not saying anything. Stan didn't know what to say at first, but slowly, he realized Kyle wasn't waiting for him to speak. Instead, he settled back into the couch and gingerly touched the bloody stump on his shoulder, patting it and wincing as though he was trying to grow accustomed to the pain.

"It's gonna hurt for a while," said Stan, breaking the silence.

"Better than being dead. And the zombies aren't going to wait for me to heal, I've got to push the clock."

"Yeah." Stan remembered countless times where he'd been forced to run on a bad leg, or with an arrow in his shoulder, or a knife wedged firmly in his bicep. It was tough, but complaining was good for nothing but getting you killed.

"Aren't you going to sleep soon?"

Kyle shook his head. "I'll stay up for Bebe and Kenny to get back."

There the feeling was again, like a hot knife twisting through Stan. "What…what if..."

"I'm not going to entertain any notion other than Bebe's success, Stan. So you can stop there." Kyle's words were clipped, edged.

Stan was surprised. "But-"

"Dude," Kyle held his hand up to stop Stan's trail of thought. "Seriously. There's nothing I can do but sit on my ass and wait. I'm not going to make myself a nervous wreck over something I'm not certain about."

Calming the frenzied jitters in his own stomach seemed impossible. Stan watched Kyle's smooth, unmoving face.

"Can I ask a question then? Unrelated, kind of."

"Shoot."

"Tweak said Kenny was a monster. Why…why would he say something like that?"

Kyle sighed tiredly. Stan could tell he was on the verge of sleep, straining to stay away. "If you didn't notice, Tweak isn't exactly grounded in reality."

"Okay, but why Kenny? Why not Butters, or Cartman?"

"I don't know, Stan."

"Oh, okay."

There it was, that penetrating silence again. Stan didn't say anything, but he could hear Kyle's breathing. Harsh, unsteady. Resisting the lull of sleep, eyelids fluttering.

He let them close. Kyle's head drooped, and Stan gently caught him, laying him on the couch. Brushing the bright red curls from his face, Stan noticed Kyle's fitful look. His lips twitched, his stump twitched. Stan could almost see the phantom limb extending, fingers curling and flexing around air.

Drowsiness dusted over Stan as well, but he dug his fingernails deeply into his thigh. The pain spurred him awake, and he watched the door with unyielding stubbornness. He didn't know what he would say. He just wanted to talk to Kenny.

The moment the door opened was like a shock straight to the nerves. Stan almost jumped out of his seat when Bebe stormed in, blonde hair even frizzier, red lips pursed furiously.

And thank God, Kenny trailed in after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys, I've breached twenty chapters! If you've stuck around this long, thank you! 
> 
> Not too much to say at the end of this one. Consider it the calm before the storm?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, you guys and your in-depth reviews and thoughtful comments and just all-around positivity are so great! I appreciate it tenfold.


	20. Chapter 20

"This clown," said Bebe, "was taking a midnight stroll out by the forest. Wanna know why? Me too." She grabbed Kenny roughly by the arm and thrust him forward. "Go ahead, tell him your excuse. It reeks so much of bullshit, I nearly puked."

Kenny looked at Stan, his eyes searching warily. Stan felt a rush of power. With a word he could save Kenny or condemn him. For all Kenny knew, he already had. He noticed that Kenny wore the dirty jacket of one of the killed zombies, the sleeves fitted perfectly around his wrists. No hint of blood showing through, very clever. It was Bebe's cajoling that had brought him back so soon, too soon to really think up a story.

Bebe was waiting with crossed arms. Kenny swallowed dryly.

"I was looking for flowers. For Ike. Thought I'd celebrate with him the day his brother decided not to be a dick anymore."

Bebe scoffed. "See? This is the kind of bullshit I put up with."

Stan thought for a moment. This was it; he could spill Kenny's secret or save his skin. Anger welled up when he thought of what Kenny had told him, but a nagging voice prodded him.  _He was only twelve_.

"I believe him."

" _What?"_ The question came from two different voices, one in dry disbelief, the other pure shock.

Stan couldn't help it; he looked right at Kenny, unblinking. "I believe you."

Kenny's mouth opened slightly, then pressed tightly shut.

Stan continued. "The others, they don't have any reason to believe…anything otherwise. So I don't know where you get off calling him a liar, Bebe."

Kenny's head lifted, blue eyes shining up at Stan. Bebe was standing behind him; she couldn't possibly see the overwhelming gratitude that poured out of him.

"What the fuck, Marsh?" Bebe hissed.

Stan shrugged. "I don't see why Kenny would lie."

Suddenly Bebe was nose to nose with him, moving so quickly that he flinched away. Her lips formed poisonous words.

"So now it's Boys Club, is that it? Or maybe you're actually just that stupid. And to think I was actually starting to like you."

Her eyes narrowed, and for a second Stan was afraid she was going to spit on him. But she whisked away, blonde curls bouncing furiously as she disappeared into the sleeping room, slamming the door so hard that Kyle twitched despite his deep sleep.

That left Kenny standing in the middle of the room, speechless. His eyes searched Stan.

"I didn't tell anyone," said Stan quietly. He glanced at Kyle, who was still deeply unconscious.

Kenny nodded. He brushed a tired hand through his hair. Took a breath.

"I-uh…I owe you one, then. Thanks."

Stan felt weird, something crawling up his throat. "It wasn't my secret to share."

Kenny coughed. "Right."

"I'm still angry."

"I figured."

"Nice jacket."

Kenny looked down as though he had forgotten he was wearing it. "Oh, yeah. I needed to cover the...ah…"

Stan remembered the bite, how brutally deep it was. "How did you stop the bleeding?"

"I just tore up a zombie's shirt and wrapped it around my arm."

Stan grimaced. "Dude, that's not sanitary."

"Well, I'm immune," said Kenny, waving his arm to prove the point.

"Yeah, you are," said Stan, gesturing for Kenny to take the jacket off. "But the others aren't. Unless everyone's been lying to me. I don't know how this works, but you could be carrying, man."

Kenny paused. "I-didn't think of that."

"Of course you didn't."

The words were as good as a slap. Kenny was silent as he shrugged out of the jacket and unwound the deeply stained shirt. Dried blood crusted over the bite, a pale liquid still oozing steadily from beneath. It didn't look infected, but better safe than sorry, Stan figured.

Stan picked up the whiskey bottle, still resting beside the couch. Seeing the dark liquid sloshing inside, Kenny cringed. But he allowed Stan take his arm, lifting the hem of his shirt and balling it into his mouth. A muffled moan escaped Kenny and his ground his teeth into the fabric, screwing his eyes upwards as Stan carefully dampened a fresh rag with the precious liquid and pressed it to the wound. Clearly resisting the urge to yank his arm back, Kenny's cloth-filled mouth twitched.

Stan cleared his throat.

"I-uh-shouldn't have left you in the woods."

Kenny looked up.

"I…" Stan continued, "I might have….over-reacted. When you didn't come home right away…"

Stan withdrew the rag, satisfied with the cleaning. Kenny spat out his shirt hastily.

"No, no dude," said Kenny as Stan wound a fresh rag over the clean bite. "You were right to be mad, I was wrong. I should have told you." He looked mournful. "I should have told them."

"Yes, you should have." The words slipped out, but Stan scrambled to complete the thought, "But you were a kid. You were scared of getting kicked out of you group. Kids do stupid stuff when they're scared, I've done things I'm not proud of."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, well, nobody's perfect."

Kenny cracked a small smile.

"So…are we cool?"

"Yeah." The word felt good to say. "But no more secrets."

"No more secrets," Kenny agreed.

"So then, I need to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Well," said Stan slowly. "Tweak seems pretty freaked out by you."

"Tweak's freaked out by everything."

"Well, yeah. But you especially. He called you a monster. He said you wanted to eat him." Stan said the words plainly, explicitly including the more gruesome details to gauge Kenny's reaction.

Kenny cringed, looking highly uncomfortable. "I…I think he saw me get bit. Or he saw the bite, I'm not sure. His…issue with me started right after it happened, so that's always kinda what I assumed."

Then he paused. "When I was missing…did you worry?"

Stan cocked a brow. "Dude, yeah. Of course I did. I almost went after you myself, but Bebe wouldn't let me."

Kenny laughed lightly. "When she found me in the forest, she gripped me by the collar and yanked me up so hard I almost blacked out again. Thought it was the icy hands of Death come to take my soul. Too bad Death doesn't wear lipstick."

Stan shrugged. He motioned to Kyle. "He wanted to wait up for you."

"Sure didn't push himself too hard."

"Yeah, well, there's only so much excitement a person can take in a day."

Kenny blew playfully on Kyle's face, grinning when the sleeping boy's nose crinkled. "We should move him to the beds, the couches suck."

"Right."

Together, with Stan hitching beneath Kyle's armpits and Kenny holding his knees, they lifted Kyle gently from the stiff cushions. The kid was so tall and gangly, limbs everywhere, impossibly awkward to carry, but they managed. Even with Stan's hand constantly slipping from Kyle's armless side, they stumbled and cursed their way to the door. Stan remembered how cramped the room was between all the beds, wondering how on Earth they were going to get settled.

Eventually they worked it out. Kenny's designated mattress was close to the door, right up beside Craig's. Stan noticed that the girls slept against the far wall, and Cartman had his own metal bunk in the corner that no one really slept around. Stan could hear why, Cartman's snores rumbled enough to mimic an earthquake. Kyle's bed was over by Ike's, but to get there they'd have to step over Tweak, who was already mumbling nonsensically under his breath. Stan remembered Butters' offer, but after taking a look, he guessed Butters forgot. The skinny boy was sprawled every which way, his hollowed face youthful in sleep. Stan could hardly see the sharp, angry angles of the boy who'd first pointed a gun at him. That boy had looked more like a Leopold.

Kenny's mattress was the size of a twin, it was a tight squeeze. They set Kyle down first, quietly as possible as to not disturb the others. Nestled right up to Craig, who was still as a rock in sleep. There was only a slim spot left next to the wall, which was padded by a blanket. Kenny lay down, pencil straight, and motioned for Stan to join him. Carefully, trying not to step on anyone, Stan lowered himself next to the wall. It was impossible to shrug away from Kenny, he was so close. But the bedding was soft, far softer than anything he was used to. And Kenny was warm.

Wriggling, Kenny turned over and threw an arm lazily across Stan's chest.

"D'you mind? 's comfier."

"Nah," The weight was nice, made him feel safer.

"Mm, cool…"

Kenny trailed off, and Stan realized he was already asleep. He was envious. Sleep didn't come naturally to Stan, he had to grab it and choke it into submission before any sort of peace swept over him. So many bad things could happen while you slept. It was vulnerability, and he didn't like it.

But being in this warm room full of softly breathing bodies, Stan felt calm. It reminded him of lions in a den. Safe and warm and almost

_almost_

_Like home_

Kenny's arm tightened around Stan, and he wondered if Kenny had ever slept with a teddy bear when he was little. He suddenly remembered his own stuffed animal, a ratty dog named 'Bur', so named since Stan couldn't say 'bark' when he was three. Strange, he hadn't thought about Bur since Sparky came along. The real thing was always better, right? That dog had been the highlight of his childhood.

Bur was even further back. Bur was the sensation of soft blankets and warm milk, pastel walls surrounding a white, fluffy comforter. The images came fuzzily, tickling his brain.

Stan missed Bur. It was one of the quietest longings he'd ever felt, and it lulled him into sleep.

Morning came too quickly, and Stan groggily tried to rub his eyes. When he moved his arms, he found they were bound by something. He turned his head and found himself nose to nose with Kenny. No one else was in the room, but Kenny was cozied right up to Stan, cuddling him with a steel grip. Even Kyle was already up, which surprised Stan. He'd seemed so drained last night.

Wriggling, Stan nudged Kenny with his shoulder.

"Hey, hey dude. Wake up."

Eyes crinkling, Kenny drew closer, pressing his forehead into Stan's shoulder.

Pulling an arm free, Stan knocked at the back of Kenny's head.

"Dude, everyone's up."

Swatting blindly at the intrusion, Kenny sighed into Stan's collar. He rolled onto his back and rubbed across his face.

"…I feel like shit…"

"Yeah, well." Stan propped himself up, easing into consciousness. A yawn split across his face.

"I didn't kick you or anything, did I?"

"Nah."

"Cool." Thrusting his arms out, Kenny cracked his back and clambered to his feet. "I guess we should go. Raid's today."

Stan immediately straightened up, the word sending an electric zing up his spine. "Right."

There was active conversation in the common room, everyone buzzing with energy. Before he had time to get his bearings, Butters shoved a bowl of onion broth into Stan's hands.

"Hey, you're up! Eat something, you've got a lot to catch up on."

"Oh, thanks." Stan sipped the hot broth, surprisingly refreshing on his tongue, though it probably did nothing for his morning breath. He slipped over to Kyle, who was sipping his soup one-handed and talking to Ike with a serious expression.

"…and don't be the hero. Stick to your job, and everything will be fine. And remember your knife."

"I know, I know." Ike rolled his eyes with all the sass of an almost-thirteen year old. When he saw Stan, his face lit up. "Stan! How'd you sleep?"

Stan grinned. "Fine. What are we talking about?"

"The raid," said Kyle. "Ike, could you help Leo clean up breakfast?"

Letting out a long-winded sigh, Ike slumped his shoulders. "Okay."

Once he was out of earshot, Kyle leaned closer to Stan. "I want you to keep an eye on Ike. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

Stan frowned. "Kyle, the kid doesn't need a babysitter."

"I know. I'm not asking that you coddle him, I just want you to watch him. Tell me how he does. God, I wish I could go."

The longing in Kyle's voice was hard to listen to. "I bet," said Stan. "It'll be fine. I saw the kid, he's got good instincts."

"He'd better."

After that, Kyle rounded everyone up and they reviewed the plan. Stan noticed with increasing uneasiness the fearful way Tweak's eyes darted over to Kenny, back and forth, like he was trying to look at the sun. Craig kept a firm hand on Tweak's shoulder, which comforted Stan. As long as Craig was around, he wasn't too worried about any potential outbursts.

Everyone began gearing up. Lo and behold, the old steel baseball sat Stan had held so dearly was waiting for him in a pile of empty guns. He picked it up immediately, relishing in the familiar smooth grip, testing the weight. Oh, he'd missed this. Bebe twirled a gleaming dagger with surprising daintiness, her ruby grin making her an outlaw from the old west. Craig was busy fitting Tweak in a leather jacket and switchblade, the world's most nervous greaser. Stan was relieved to see that Tweak would not be carrying a gun. Kenny was sizing up between two large hunting knives, and Red slipped a wrench into her belt after taking the precious shotgun. And Ike, poor Ike, was confused as all hell. He picked up a bow, put it back, looked around nervously, picked up a screwdriver, furrowed his brow, put it back. Stan felt sorry for the kid, but couldn't help being slightly amused as well.

"Hey kid," he said, pulling Ike to the side. "Need some help?"

Ike was distraught. "I've never used any of this stuff before. I just avoided the zombies, I never fought them." He looked behind him, but no one else was listening. "I-I don't know if I can do this."

"Dude, don't worry. I'll be out there with you."

"I know…I want Kyle to go too."

Ike sounded heartbroken, and Stan felt for the kid, he really did. "You know he can't."

Ike bit his lip hard, upset, and Stan was reminded that the boy was only twelve. Almost thirteen. It was a strange thing to think about. Age was a broken concept to Stan. If the zombies didn't care, why should he? When you were small, you hid. As you grew older, you ran. And eventually, if you survived puberty, you fought back.

Stan had done it. Any other kid, he'd thump them on the back and tell them to suck it up, but this was Ike. A living, breathing piece of his own childhood.

"Here, take this." He extended the bat to Ike, who took it with wide eyes. Damn, he really was feeling too sentimental. "I picked it up when I was about your age. Saved my life a good few times. It's easy to use, you just swing it, really."

Ike gripped the worn handle, tapped the metal end in his palm as confidence slowly ebbed its way back to him. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

"What will you use?"

"Probably one of the hunting knives. Maybe a screwdriver for backup."

"Stan, thank you. I mean…this is fantastic. I feel like I can use this."

Stan ruffled Ike's hair. "It's nothing."

The two returned to the group. Ike gave Kyle a hard hug. Stan watched them, a nice feeling growing inside him when Butters approached him.

"Hey, I'm not going, obviously, but I just wanted to say, good luck out there. Not that you need it!" he backtracked, "I just, I-um..."

"Butters," said Stan, looking at him pointedly. "I'll see you later."

"Right! You will!" Butters agreed as Stan's meaning dawned on him. "I mean- I will! Yeah!"

The blond gave Stan a fierce hug, then bounded off to Red. Stan watched him go, slipping the knife into the familiar spot in his boot. He watch Kyle and Ike finish their goodbyes. Kyle patted Ike on the back and whispered a few words in his ear before sending him in Stan's direction. He looked like a parent on their child's first day of school, all pride and nerves, with a burning want to follow. It was kind of sweet, Stan thought. A big step.

And they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bit of chapter splicing, otherwise this update would have been pitifully short. But finally, things! Adventure, zombies, all that stuff you initially sign up for in a zombie fic finally on the way! I mean, we had our close encounters (looking at you Kyle), but now we're doing big grown-up missions! I know, I know, I wrote the characters to be the way they are, but honestly I'm so excited for Ike. Like, you go kid, you deserve this.
> 
> You guys are wonderful, supportive, and amazingly responsive. Thank you so much for sticking with this story, thank you for your wonderful reviews, just, thank you.


	21. Chapter 21

Craig led the pack, Tweak trailing closely behind him. Red and Kenny bantered back and forth, the latter twirling a strand of Red's hair between his fingers, pecking her teasingly on the cheek. She blushed deeply and playfully pushed him off, only for his hands and lips to find her again. Stan and Ike fell in after them, Ike swinging the metal bat, talking cheerfully to Stan. And Bebe brought up the tail, twirling that dagger like a baton.

"Do you think I'll get to kill a zombie?" Ike asked energetically, bringing the bat down through the air with control, testing it.

"Probably," said Stan. "Tons of those bastards out there, someone's gotta take 'em out."

"Yeah." Another swing. "Kyle said to stick to the plan and everything will be okay."

"Sounds about right."

"I was worried before, but now I'm kinda exci-"

" _Quiet."_

Craig stopped walking, thrusting an arm out behind him. He pointed to the two undead guys standing with eerie stillness by the forest's edge. "How close are we to the supplies?"

Bebe answered him. "A good half-hour from what I remember. We can take 'em."

Kenny grinned, drawing his knife. "I got this."

Before Red could protest, Kenny crept towards the zombies, Bebe right behind him. Stan could feel Ike tense.

"What do I do?" Ike was fixated on the zombies.

"Just watch. See how they do it."

Kenny and Bebe prowled ahead of the pack, lions going in for a kill. Making a wide circle, the two split up and approached the zombies from opposite sides. One lifted its decayed head, letting out a death rattle that make Ike stand just a little closer to Stan. But Bebe extended her arm and with startling speed flung her dagger straight through the zombie's brain with a whistling  _whoosh_. Before the other zombie could even groan, Kenny darted up behind it and swiftly put his own knife through the neck. He pulled it out with a satisfied grin, wiping the blade on his shirt as the zombie toppled over.

"Just two stragglers," he said.

Red ran up to Kenny and pushed him. "I swear you're going to get yourself killed one of these days!"

Kenny glanced at Stan and winked. "Nah, I'm too quick."

 _Quick,_ thought Stan.  _Right._

Ike gazed up at Kenny and Bebe with awe. "That was incredible!"

Twirling her knife, Bebe winked at him. "Practice makes perfect, kiddo. Here, give it a feel." She handed him the small dagger, going over the proper ways to handle it as they continued walking. Ike was fascinated, turning the blade over in his hands, tucking Stan's bat under his arm. Bebe watched him carefully, guiding the knife in his hands with a crooked smile. It was strange, she looked almost motherly.

When Craig stopped them again they were at the forest's edge. Even in broad daylight, the chorus of moans sounding from deep within the trees gave Stan chills. He made sure to stay near Ike.

"Tweak," said Craig. "You're up."

Tweak seemed reluctant, hand lingering on Craig's jacket as the taller boy gently prodded him forward. He stared at the forest like it was about to swallow him up, taking short breaths until Craig told him to relax. Edging into the trees anxiously, he passed one, then another, then another thick, wildly overgrown oak. Without humans to trim it back, the forest had taken on a life of its own, reclaiming the land with curling roots and towering branches thick with leaves. Stan watched as it engulfed Tweak, the boy's shock of blond hair the last bit of colour to be seen before the light filtered out.

"He'll be okay, right?" whispered Ike.

"Yeah, of course," said Stan, though he felt unsure. Craig's gaze lingered on the forest, a faraway glint in his eyes. As usual, his strong features betrayed no emotion.

It seemed to last an eternity before Tweak returned, though it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. They'd chatted, practiced swiping at one another (he was much more careful sparring with Kenny this time) until Craig spotted him. They all turned to see Tweak full-blown sprinting through the trees, cold sweat leaking from his pale skin.

"They-there's twelve," he said breathlessly, agitated. "Twelve or ten, I don't know, I didn't get a good count, they kept moving, and then I tripped and one almost saw me, oh  _god-"_

"But it didn't," Craig interjected. "Go on."

"Okay, okay, there's two in the camp site, the rest are just stumbling around it, I don't think they can run, they look really  _really_ gross."

"Good, anything else?"

Tweak shook his head. Then he blurted, "One of them's a kid, I hate it,  _I hate it_  when they're kids."

Ike looked sick. "How old?"

"Maybe a year dead, two years."

"I meant when he-it died."

"Don't answer that," said Bebe sharply, startling Tweak. "It doesn't matter how old it is, it's dead. And we're gonna kill it."

"Where would a kid come from?" Kenny wondered.

"Maybe Camp Fuck-all fell, I don't fucking know."

Stan blinked. "Camp…what?"

"Let's go. We're burning daylight," said Craig. He stepped across the tangles threshold into the deep forest. "Bebe, Stan, Ike, follow me. Kenny, watch their backs. Red, stick with Kenny. Keep your finger off that trigger." Though efficient, Craig's robotic instructions lacked the zeal and enthusiasm that Kyle so easily instilled. Feeling less than inspired, Stan followed him.

The monstrous trees cast dark shadows, light rapidly dwindling as the group ventured deeper. Having grown so used to barren prairies and broken cityscapes, the wildly massive fauna took Stan's breath away, seeming almost prehistoric. It reminded him of a movie he'd seen long ago, something about dinosaurs and archaeologists. Muffled groans echoed from every direction, and Ike drew closer, keeping a tight grip on the bat with both hands. No one spoke, but Tweak pointed to the outline of a swaying figure. Stan noticed that no matter where Kenny was, Tweak always positioned himself so that Craig walked between them.

"That's the first of them," he said more softly than Stan thought Tweak capable of. "There's another right next to him, and them two more to the right of that one. Then the campsite, two in there. The rest are on the other side."

Already Kenny was one step ahead of Tweak, blade out. Craig gritted his teeth but said nothing. One quick stick and the figure toppled. Stealing through the trees, Stan caught up to Kenny, giving Ike a pat before doing so. He rounded up behind the next zombie while Kenny struggled to loose his blade from the first's neck. With practiced stealth, he darted to it and thrust the screwdriver through the brain, driving with such force that he pinned it to a tree. The quicker you struck, the less likely it was for the zombie to notice you. Even if the thought of rushing a zombie was downright terrifying. Ike clearly seemed to think so, the way he was gawking.

"Kenny," Craig hissed, "Watch the back. Don't go off ahead of everyone."

"I'm better in front," said Kenny, finally freeing his blade. "You bring up the rear."

Craig blinked. "No, Kenny."

Kenny ignored him, venturing further. He gave Stan a knowing look, but Stan didn't say anything. He didn't want to start something in this dark, deadly forest. And if Kenny wasn't going to give up his secret now, Stan wouldn't force him to.

They reached the campsite before they found the other two zombies. It was Stan, Ike, and Bebe's duty to rifle through the ruins and salvage as much as possible while Craig, Kenny, and Red stood guard. Stan found an empty handgun and a few empty shells, a bunch of useless junk before he unearthed the can opener from a pile of trash. Ike did one better- he found actual cans of food, unopened, untampered. Bebe found a backpack to put all the goods in. There was a small garden spade, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, what looked like a professional hunting bow, and a reel of fishing line. They stripped the tent, bundling the tarp into the pack. Ike picked a few weeds, roots and all, stuffing them into his back pocket.

"That's everything," said Bebe. "Let's hightail it outa here, I'm getting the creeps."

Craig nodded. "Right."

"Wait a sec," said Ike, venturing to the edge of the campsite. "There's a fishing rod, let me just-"

Ike stopped talking so suddenly it confused Stan. "Just what? Ike?" Then he saw it.

The boy could not have been more than thirteen, a scrawny thing with ravaged skin, yellowish skull visible through peeled skin. Empty, swirling white eyes stared at Ike. Its groan was like a baby bird crying for food, high warbling.

Tweak began shaking violently, fixated on the small, dead child. Craig detected the warning signs immediately.

"Go, wait for us outside the forest."

Without a word Tweak fled.

Ike slowly crept backwards, holding out the metal bat with a deathly grip. He brought it up over his head, but Stan could see him shaking nearly as bad as Tweak did. The undead child warbled again, limbs like twigs shuffling forward.

"Kill it." Bebe's voice was low, harsh. "It's a monster Ike, nothing else."

Her voice caused the zombie child to raise its head blindly, sticking out a spongey tongue and giving another garbled cry.

"Quickly, it's gonna attract others."

Already the forest was growing haunted with groans, branches snapping and dead feet shuffling unevenly over the dirt. Stan saw the whites of Ike's eyes, the boy was petrified. This was growing far too risky.

_He had to act_

In less than two bounds Stan flew passed Ike and thrust the screwdriver through the skull. It was softer than he expected, like driving a nail through a soft piece of wood. The cries choked off as the child slowly wilted into the earth.

"I-I couldn't…" Ike took another step back, drained of colour. He lowered the steel bat slowly. "Stan, I-"

"We gotta move." Craig surveyed the dark forest, clutching his machete. "The noise will attract attention."

"Craig, dude-"

"Later, Kenny."

"No,  _Craig."_  Everyone turned to Kenny. Stan's stomach knotted when he saw that Kenny was filled with fear, locked onto something behind Craig. He followed the gaze and lost his breath.

Countless dark, dropping heads peppered throughout the trees, slants of daylight illuminating putrefying faces. They moved steadily, senselessly forcing through the intertwining brittle bark with loud snaps. There were more, so much more than Tweak had estimated. Like the tide they drew nearer, unceasingly pushing through the tangle forest. Clearing a path.

Stan startled backwards. He drew his hunting knife, shielding Ike from the approaching monsters.  _Run_ , his mind screamed,  _run, run get away get away NOW_. But he held his ground. From the tilt of the moving bodies, the steadier gait, he realized with ice in his chest that some of them were runners.

"Let's go back," he said, but when he turned around he saw dark figures approaching from every direction. They swallowed up the forest, numerous as the trees, everywhere. Stan realized faintly that he was going to die.

"Where did they come from?" he asked.

"U-up north…there was another camp," Ike's voice trembled. "I guess they…they…."

"Serves 'em right." There was an ugly expression on Bebe's face as she observed the horde. "Heartless fuckers."

The muscles in Craig's jaw jumped, marking prominent shadows against his skin. The display made Stan uneasy. Craig was afraid.

"I'll get them to chase me," said Kenny. "I'll lead them away and you guys get out."

"Kenny,  _no_ ," said Red.

"I'll be back at the shelter in an hour. or two"

"Kenny," called Ike. "Kenny, wait!"

But it was too late. Kenny bounded off, quickly lost in the black forest. Stan pressed his lips together.

Bebe gritted her teeth, a tear of frustration tracking down her cheek. "Asshole."

Silently, Stan agreed. It wasn't fair, leaving the others to worry about the gruesome, terrible outcomes that would never happen. Still, he was grateful that Kenny was at least taking advantage of his immunity. Likely they'd all be dead otherwise.

Before long they heard his far-off shouts, warding the zombies from their direction. Craig nodded stiffly, as though this sort of thing was a reoccurring problem with Kenny. "There he goes."

The misty figures stopped, and some turned in the direction of the noise. But others staggered onward, drawing nearer. Not yet in the throes of bloodlust, but clearly interested.

Stan saw the rifle trembling in Red's hands, her finger hovering precariously. "Red, don't pull that trigger."

Red paled. "B-but Kyle said-"

"Stan's right. You pull that trigger and it's over for all of us," Bebe snarled. She stormed to Red and ripped the rifle from her, thrusting it at Stan, who was nearest. "It'll only slow me down." Then she turned and ran.

Swallowing, Red stared after her. Then she bolted too.

Stan took Ike's hand and led him through the forest. He heard Craig's footsteps beating against the dirt behind them, the girls already far ahead. They passed tree after tree, and Stan wondered faintly if they were going in the right direction. He just ran, keeping Ike's arm in a death grip and practically dragged him across the earth. Blood pounded in his head like tribal drums. A fetid growling breath that rose like mist from the earth choked him. The stink of death, thick and sour. Groans turned to roaring, so close Stan felt the cold breath in his ear. They were catching the scent.

Then suddenly there was a strangled scream.

Every instinct screamed at Stan  _don't look back_ , but he did.

Just in time to see the dead man sink its jaws into the meaty part of Craig's shoulder, tearing away a bloody chunk. Another clasped clammy hands around his waist, then another, then another. Others stopped, smelling fresh blood. Tearing through leather, then cloth, then skin, spilling shiny organs into the open air. Smells of shit and metal mingled in the air as Craig's life blood poured from him. His skin was pure snow as his body slackened, emptying in a sickly rush. Stan could still see his face. He was terrified.

Then he realized Ike was with him. Ike was seeing all this.

A familiar feeling washed over Stan, hardening him. He knew what he had to do, if he truly was anything like an ally to Craig. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the air, deafening, finding its mark between Craig's eyes. The blankness that overcame them looked almost blissful.

He ignored Ike's screams. Craig's lifeless body wouldn't keep the horde entertained for long. Abandoning the rifle, he scooped Ike into his arms and ran for his life, shrieks echoing all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahah I'm so sorry.
> 
> Twenty two chapters and things are finally beginning. Ohhh the excitement, the terror, the antici-
> 
> -pation
> 
> Thanks for reading, reviewing, I cannot find words to express how wonderful you are, and how much you mean to me! Thank you all.


	22. Chapter 22

Craig led the pack, Tweak trailing closely behind him. Red and Kenny bantered back and forth, the latter twirling a strand of Red's hair between his fingers, pecking her teasingly on the cheek. She blushed deeply and playfully pushed him off, only for his hands and lips to find her again. Stan and Ike fell in after them, Ike swinging the metal bat, talking cheerfully to Stan. And Bebe brought up the tail, twirling that dagger like a baton.

"Do you think I'll get to kill a zombie?" Ike asked energetically, bringing the bat down through the air with control, testing it.

"Probably," said Stan. "Tons of those bastards out there, someone's gotta take 'em out."

"Yeah." Another swing. "Kyle said to stick to the plan and everything will be okay."

"Sounds about right."

"I was worried before, but now I'm kinda exci-"

" _Quiet."_

Craig stopped walking, thrusting an arm out behind him. He pointed to the two undead guys standing with eerie stillness by the forest's edge. "How close are we to the supplies?"

Bebe answered him. "A good half-hour from what I remember. We can take 'em."

Kenny grinned, drawing his knife. "I got this."

Before Red could protest, Kenny crept towards the zombies, Bebe right behind him. Stan could feel Ike tense.

"What do I do?" Ike was fixated on the zombies.

"Just watch. See how they do it."

Kenny and Bebe prowled ahead of the pack, lions going in for a kill. Making a wide circle, the two split up and approached the zombies from opposite sides. One lifted its decayed head, letting out a death rattle that make Ike stand just a little closer to Stan. But Bebe extended her arm and with startling speed flung her dagger straight through the zombie's brain with a whistling  _whoosh_. Before the other zombie could even groan, Kenny darted up behind it and swiftly put his own knife through the neck. He pulled it out with a satisfied grin, wiping the blade on his shirt as the zombie toppled over.

"Just two stragglers," he said.

Red ran up to Kenny and pushed him. "I swear you're going to get yourself killed one of these days!"

Kenny glanced at Stan and winked. "Nah, I'm too quick."

 _Quick,_ thought Stan.  _Right._

Ike gazed up at Kenny and Bebe with awe. "That was incredible!"

Twirling her knife, Bebe winked at him. "Practice makes perfect, kiddo. Here, give it a feel." She handed him the small dagger, going over the proper ways to handle it as they continued walking. Ike was fascinated, turning the blade over in his hands, tucking Stan's bat under his arm. Bebe watched him carefully, guiding the knife in his hands with a crooked smile. It was strange, she looked almost motherly.

When Craig stopped them again they were at the forest's edge. Even in broad daylight, the chorus of moans sounding from deep within the trees gave Stan chills. He made sure to stay near Ike.

"Tweak," said Craig. "You're up."

Tweak seemed reluctant, hand lingering on Craig's jacket as the taller boy gently prodded him forward. He stared at the forest like it was about to swallow him up, taking short breaths until Craig told him to relax. Edging into the trees anxiously, he passed one, then another, then another thick, wildly overgrown oak. Without humans to trim it back, the forest had taken on a life of its own, reclaiming the land with curling roots and towering branches thick with leaves. Stan watched as it engulfed Tweak, the boy's shock of blond hair the last bit of colour to be seen before the light filtered out.

"He'll be okay, right?" whispered Ike.

"Yeah, of course," said Stan, though he felt unsure. Craig's gaze lingered on the forest, a faraway glint in his eyes. As usual, his strong features betrayed no emotion.

It seemed to last an eternity before Tweak returned, though it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. They'd chatted, practiced swiping at one another (he was much more careful sparring with Kenny this time) until Craig spotted him. They all turned to see Tweak full-blown sprinting through the trees, cold sweat leaking from his pale skin.

"They-there's twelve," he said breathlessly, agitated. "Twelve or ten, I don't know, I didn't get a good count, they kept moving, and then I tripped and one almost saw me, oh  _god-"_

"But it didn't," Craig interjected. "Go on."

"Okay, okay, there's two in the camp site, the rest are just stumbling around it, I don't think they can run, they look really  _really_ gross."

"Good, anything else?"

Tweak shook his head. Then he blurted, "One of them's a kid, I hate it,  _I hate it_  when they're kids."

Ike looked sick. "How old?"

"Maybe a year dead, two years."

"I meant when he-it died."

"Don't answer that," said Bebe sharply, startling Tweak. "It doesn't matter how old it is, it's dead. And we're gonna kill it."

"Where would a kid come from?" Kenny wondered.

"Maybe Camp Fuck-all fell, I don't fucking know."

Stan blinked. "Camp…what?"

"Let's go. We're burning daylight," said Craig. He stepped across the tangles threshold into the deep forest. "Bebe, Stan, Ike, follow me. Kenny, watch their backs. Red, stick with Kenny. Keep your finger off that trigger." Though efficient, Craig's robotic instructions lacked the zeal and enthusiasm that Kyle so easily instilled. Feeling less than inspired, Stan followed him.

The monstrous trees cast dark shadows, light rapidly dwindling as the group ventured deeper. Having grown so used to barren prairies and broken cityscapes, the wildly massive fauna took Stan's breath away, seeming almost prehistoric. It reminded him of a movie he'd seen long ago, something about dinosaurs and archaeologists. Muffled groans echoed from every direction, and Ike drew closer, keeping a tight grip on the bat with both hands. No one spoke, but Tweak pointed to the outline of a swaying figure. Stan noticed that no matter where Kenny was, Tweak always positioned himself so that Craig walked between them.

"That's the first of them," he said more softly than Stan thought Tweak capable of. "There's another right next to him, and them two more to the right of that one. Then the campsite, two in there. The rest are on the other side."

Already Kenny was one step ahead of Tweak, blade out. Craig gritted his teeth but said nothing. One quick stick and the figure toppled. Stealing through the trees, Stan caught up to Kenny, giving Ike a pat before doing so. He rounded up behind the next zombie while Kenny struggled to loose his blade from the first's neck. With practiced stealth, he darted to it and thrust the screwdriver through the brain, driving with such force that he pinned it to a tree. The quicker you struck, the less likely it was for the zombie to notice you. Even if the thought of rushing a zombie was downright terrifying. Ike clearly seemed to think so, the way he was gawking.

"Kenny," Craig hissed, "Watch the back. Don't go off ahead of everyone."

"I'm better in front," said Kenny, finally freeing his blade. "You bring up the rear."

Craig blinked. "No, Kenny."

Kenny ignored him, venturing further. He gave Stan a knowing look, but Stan didn't say anything. He didn't want to start something in this dark, deadly forest. And if Kenny wasn't going to give up his secret now, Stan wouldn't force him to.

They reached the campsite before they found the other two zombies. It was Stan, Ike, and Bebe's duty to rifle through the ruins and salvage as much as possible while Craig, Kenny, and Red stood guard. Stan found an empty handgun and a few empty shells, a bunch of useless junk before he unearthed the can opener from a pile of trash. Ike did one better- he found actual cans of food, unopened, untampered. Bebe found a backpack to put all the goods in. There was a small garden spade, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, what looked like a professional hunting bow, and a reel of fishing line. They stripped the tent, bundling the tarp into the pack. Ike picked a few weeds, roots and all, stuffing them into his back pocket.

"That's everything," said Bebe. "Let's hightail it outa here, I'm getting the creeps."

Craig nodded. "Right."

"Wait a sec," said Ike, venturing to the edge of the campsite. "There's a fishing rod, let me just-"

Ike stopped talking so suddenly it confused Stan. "Just what? Ike?" Then he saw it.

The boy could not have been more than thirteen, a scrawny thing with ravaged skin, yellowish skull visible through peeled skin. Empty, swirling white eyes stared at Ike. Its groan was like a baby bird crying for food, high warbling.

Tweak began shaking violently, fixated on the small, dead child. Craig detected the warning signs immediately.

"Go, wait for us outside the forest."

Without a word Tweak fled.

Ike slowly crept backwards, holding out the metal bat with a deathly grip. He brought it up over his head, but Stan could see him shaking nearly as bad as Tweak did. The undead child warbled again, limbs like twigs shuffling forward.

"Kill it." Bebe's voice was low, harsh. "It's a monster Ike, nothing else."

Her voice caused the zombie child to raise its head blindly, sticking out a spongey tongue and giving another garbled cry.

"Quickly, it's gonna attract others."

Already the forest was growing haunted with groans, branches snapping and dead feet shuffling unevenly over the dirt. Stan saw the whites of Ike's eyes, the boy was petrified. This was growing far too risky.

_He had to act_

In less than two bounds Stan flew passed Ike and thrust the screwdriver through the skull. It was softer than he expected, like driving a nail through a soft piece of wood. The cries choked off as the child slowly wilted into the earth.

"I-I couldn't…" Ike took another step back, drained of colour. He lowered the steel bat slowly. "Stan, I-"

"We gotta move." Craig surveyed the dark forest, clutching his machete. "The noise will attract attention."

"Craig, dude-"

"Later, Kenny."

"No,  _Craig."_  Everyone turned to Kenny. Stan's stomach knotted when he saw that Kenny was filled with fear, locked onto something behind Craig. He followed the gaze and lost his breath.

Countless dark, dropping heads peppered throughout the trees, slants of daylight illuminating putrefying faces. They moved steadily, senselessly forcing through the intertwining brittle bark with loud snaps. There were more, so much more than Tweak had estimated. Like the tide they drew nearer, unceasingly pushing through the tangle forest. Clearing a path.

Stan startled backwards. He drew his hunting knife, shielding Ike from the approaching monsters.  _Run_ , his mind screamed,  _run, run get away get away NOW_. But he held his ground. From the tilt of the moving bodies, the steadier gait, he realized with ice in his chest that some of them were runners.

"Let's go back," he said, but when he turned around he saw dark figures approaching from every direction. They swallowed up the forest, numerous as the trees, everywhere. Stan realized faintly that he was going to die.

"Where did they come from?" he asked.

"U-up north…there was another camp," Ike's voice trembled. "I guess they…they…."

"Serves 'em right." There was an ugly expression on Bebe's face as she observed the horde. "Heartless fuckers."

The muscles in Craig's jaw jumped, marking prominent shadows against his skin. The display made Stan uneasy. Craig was afraid.

"I'll get them to chase me," said Kenny. "I'll lead them away and you guys get out."

"Kenny,  _no_ ," said Red.

"I'll be back at the shelter in an hour. or two"

"Kenny," called Ike. "Kenny, wait!"

But it was too late. Kenny bounded off, quickly lost in the black forest. Stan pressed his lips together.

Bebe gritted her teeth, a tear of frustration tracking down her cheek. "Asshole."

Silently, Stan agreed. It wasn't fair, leaving the others to worry about the gruesome, terrible outcomes that would never happen. Still, he was grateful that Kenny was at least taking advantage of his immunity. Likely they'd all be dead otherwise.

Before long they heard his far-off shouts, warding the zombies from their direction. Craig nodded stiffly, as though this sort of thing was a reoccurring problem with Kenny. "There he goes."

The misty figures stopped, and some turned in the direction of the noise. But others staggered onward, drawing nearer. Not yet in the throes of bloodlust, but clearly interested.

Stan saw the rifle trembling in Red's hands, her finger hovering precariously. "Red, don't pull that trigger."

Red paled. "B-but Kyle said-"

"Stan's right. You pull that trigger and it's over for all of us," Bebe snarled. She stormed to Red and ripped the rifle from her, thrusting it at Stan, who was nearest. "It'll only slow me down." Then she turned and ran.

Swallowing, Red stared after her. Then she bolted too.

Stan took Ike's hand and led him through the forest. He heard Craig's footsteps beating against the dirt behind them, the girls already far ahead. They passed tree after tree, and Stan wondered faintly if they were going in the right direction. He just ran, keeping Ike's arm in a death grip and practically dragged him across the earth. Blood pounded in his head like tribal drums. A fetid growling breath that rose like mist from the earth choked him. The stink of death, thick and sour. Groans turned to roaring, so close Stan felt the cold breath in his ear. They were catching the scent.

Then suddenly there was a strangled scream.

Every instinct screamed at Stan  _don't look back_ , but he did.

Just in time to see the dead man sink its jaws into the meaty part of Craig's shoulder, tearing away a bloody chunk. Another clasped clammy hands around his waist, then another, then another. Others stopped, smelling fresh blood. Tearing through leather, then cloth, then skin, spilling shiny organs into the open air. Smells of shit and metal mingled in the air as Craig's life blood poured from him. His skin was pure snow as his body slackened, emptying in a sickly rush. Stan could still see his face. He was terrified.

Then he realized Ike was with him. Ike was seeing all this.

A familiar feeling washed over Stan, hardening him. He knew what he had to do, if he truly was anything like an ally to Craig. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the air, deafening, finding its mark between Craig's eyes. The blankness that overcame them looked almost blissful.

He ignored Ike's screams. Craig's lifeless body wouldn't keep the horde entertained for long. Abandoning the rifle, he scooped Ike into his arms and ran for his life, shrieks echoing all around him.


	23. Chapter 23

_He was eleven_

_racing through thick trees howls in the air_

_running_

_away_

_from mom's outstretched arms_

Air ripped through Stan's lungs like fire as he tore through the forest. His legs burned and his throat was so dry he feared it would crack and drip blood, but the need for oxygen was overwhelming. A cramp stitched its way up his ribs, squeezing painfully. With every beat Ike's legs bumped against it, a resounding thudding, but Stan forced himself to ignore it. The world was eerily silent all around him, passing by him sluggishly as though he ran underwater. He looked down at Ike, and the boy's mouth was split open in a strange caricature of ear-piercing shrieking, soundless. No howls, screams, twig snaps, gun shots, just the blood rushing through his veins as he kicked one leg out in front of the other over the loose dirt.

_Find a way out Marsh, get out of the forest_

He tried to follow the sliver of daylight beyond the trees, but it leap from his vision as he was forced to dart and dance about, staying just out of the reach of dead clammy hands. Slowly, agonizingly, the light grew. Sunlight shone through the trees, weeds and sprouts tangling around Stan's ankles as the foliage dwindled. He kept running, willing himself not to stumble, not to fall. Ike's heartbeat fluttered just above his, spurring him to go faster. Wind whistled in his ear and stung his eyes, running cold fingers through his filthy hair.

Til finally he emerged, glorious sunlight bathing him. With great relief he spotted Bebe and Red, two small figures off in the distance. They weren't running, rather, they seemed to be waiting for him. Stan made right for them.

"Where's Craig?" Red asked. Then she saw Ike, who clung to Stan with desperation, face buried in Stan's shoulder, sobbing. "Wait, Ike, what's wrong with Ike? Ike, buddy, look at me, what's wrong? Ike. Please, Ike."

"I know what's fucking wrong," Bebe murmured. Her face was beautifully carved stone, blue eyes pretty and vacant. "Craig, you  _idiot…"_

Sickly realization set in, and grief overwhelmed Red. She looked at Stan desperately, clutched his arm. "No. No…" She sank to the ground, palm pressed to her mouth, shoulders quivering. "No no no, no please, no,  _oh_   _god_ …" As her fingers loosened from Stan's wrist, he clutched them in his own with sudden fierceness.

"We gotta keep moving." Stan hated himself for the words, forcing Red to act when she was so clearly hurting. He passed Ike to Bebe and gently helped Red to her feet. She let him, responding numbly to his touch. With a great sniffle she rubbed hard at her eyes, as though the sadness could be brushed out like dust. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes wet, but there was a clear understanding in them. She was prioritizing, Stan realized, and it would save her life. Shove all the useless crap down and keep moving, save the tears and trauma for a time when you could afford them.

"They're coming," Bebe said flatly, looking over the horizon as she absently stroked Ike's hair. "What's the plan?"

"South Park," said Stan. "We go to South Park. We can't lead them back to the shelter."

"And then what? We wait them out? We'll starve."

"We can figure that out later. Right now we need to find a high roof."

"And food?"

"We need to focus on the now."

Stan and Bebe spoke in the same dead tone, all business no inflection. Stan could tell Bebe was good at not letting her emotions betray her, although there was a strain to her words. He realized with a twinge that Craig had been very good at compartmentalizing logic and emotion.

"Where's Tweak?" Stan asked.

Reds hand flew to her mouth. Panic flashed across Bebe's face. "Oh,  _shit._ "

Stan cursed inwardly. The situation was growing too tangled, he had to cut some strings. "Okay, forget Tweak for now. Zombies don't smell him, he's not in any danger, so, fuck him. For now just fuck him. We gotta go." He spoke harshly, leaving no room for debate. Luckily, the others seemed to understand that there was no time to argue anyways.

Bebe carried Ike, insisting that Stan needed the rest. He didn't argue. Ike was a small kid, but still at least an extra fifty pounds on his chest. They ran towards South Park at a steadier pace, Stan holding Red's hand all the way. It was awkward running, but Stan figured Red needed the tangible support. She'd stopped sniffling, the physical effort giving her steadier breath and clearing her head. Kenny and his immunity crossed Stan's mind. He realized that even if Kenny could survive a bite or two, he'd be dead if the horde caught up to him.  _They'd rip him apart._ Stan pushed the thought down.

Soon the soft thud of grass was replaced by echoing clacks of broken pavement. The zombies in South Park were pitifully slow, child's play compared to the forest. They seemed almost elderly, all groans and creaky limbs, legs that shook as they ambled lazily through the streets. Still, Stan knew better than to let his guard down.  _Find a roof, find a roof, don't think about Craig, even better don't think, just move._ The group stole down the alleyway, climbing up the nearest fire escape and settling on the roof of South Park's only motel. Sleazy and ripe with business in its day, it was now cracked, faded and desolate. But it had two stories and a working fire escape.

Stan was worried Ike wouldn't be able to climb, incapacitated by his own emotion. But when Bebe set him down and climbed up, he followed without a word.

On the roof everything seemed to sink in. Bebe started pacing frantically, spitting curses under her breath, yellow hair frizzing up. Red watched her sadly for a moment before approaching her, giving her soft words that Stan couldn't hear. He wasn't paying attention anyways. He was looking at Ike.

The kid's eyes were blank, glassy, electric blue against his colourless skin. Ike stood frozen on the edge of the roof, gazing over South Park and beyond the forest. There were dark stains on the front of his jacket, a grey puffed style two sizes too big for him. Probably picked out by Kyle, something to keep him safe and warm. But Ike looked so cold.

"I lost your bat."

Stan was struck by the absurdity of the statement. "Ike, it's okay."

Ike didn't appear to be listening.

"Ike, we're going to get out of this."

"I'm sorry."

"It was just a bat, Ike, don't worry."

"It's my fault Craig's dead."

"Wha- Ike, no. No. That's not true. You can't think like that."

A hot tear burned down Ike's icy cheek. He turned to Stan, hardly seeming twelve anymore. There was a haunted look to him, something hollow and grim shadowing his eyes.

"I-I couldn't…and now...I wish it was me."

Hot anger filled Stan, and he fiercely took Ike by the shoulders. "You listen to me, kid. You never say that again. You never blame yourself for something those monsters do."

Ike looked down, but Stan caught his chin and lifted him back to eye level.

"Dude, when my parents and Shelly died, I blamed myself. You know where that got me? Fuck all nowhere. It bogged me down for months and fucked with my brain, and if it wasn't for Camp Colorado, I wouldn't have lasted a week. You have to let it go."

Ike shook his head aimlessly, rejecting the thought. "I…don't know…"

"Yeah you do," Stan gripped Ike's shoulder hard. "You don't get a choice. I'm not giving you one. It happened, it's done."  _You shove that crap down, Marsh._

At that moment Bebe and Red returned. Bebe's cheeks were high with colour, her eyes sorely red. Red looked as though she had been crying too, the last remnants of a sob working up her throat.

"So- _hic-_ what to we- _hic-_ do now?"

Stan thought for a moment. "The shelter's safe for now, but with this many zombies milling about…we need to get everyone out. We need to move."

Bebe gave him an incredulous look. "Are you suggesting we  _uproot completely_?"

Stan forced himself to stay civil. He spoke evenly, "It's not safe to stay here. Look at South Park. It's becoming infested." He gestured to the numerous undead already milling about. "If it's a camp that collapsed, well, from what I remember, Camp Colorado was pretty fucking big, over five thousand people."

Red nodded, biting her lip. "It wasn't that big, but it was definitely a community. I'd say five hundred at the most."

"Five hundred pieces of shit," Bebe muttered.

"What happened?" asked Stan, lost.

Bebe laughed loudly without humor. "Oh god, where do I begin? About five years ago, Red and Kenny stumbled across this massive walled camp, all barbed wire and metal borders. Sounds like salvation, right? No, fuck that, fucking Camp Fucker decided to shoot at a couple of  _fifteen year olds_  that apparently were a giant fucking threat. Even after they made it clear they weren't going to raid the fucking joint, that fucker on guard wouldn't let them leave unless…" She glanced at Ike cautiously,"…unless they gave him all their shit."

"He held us at gunpoint," Red remembered shakily, "He threatened to kill us. Kyle didn't want anyone going back there after we told him. We even made a point of avoiding it after a while. I-I guess it's a good thing they didn't let us in."

"Yep, and look at that, even in death they manage to fuck things up for us."

"Okay," said Stan. "So there's five hundred of those things migrating down here. Maybe more, seeing as zombies attract zombies. Those guys are moving pretty quickly, we have about a day, maybe two, before this place is overrun. We need to slip back to the shelter and get everybody."

"What about Tweak?" Red asked softly. "What about Kenny?"

"Freak's probably back at the shelter," mumbled Bebe.

"No."

Ike's small voice surprised Stan. He turned to see the small boy staring over the wave of zombies, still as a statue, finger pointing downward. "He's there…in the crowd…"

Stan dashed to the edge of the roof. What he saw astounded him.

Tweak was shuffling slowly, weaving through the increasing zombies like a ghost. Even from a distance Stan could see him twitching violently, gaze darting about rapidly as he took in each dead face he passed with transparent horror. He kept a hand tightly clasp over his mouth, the gesture looked more practiced than reactive, as though someone had instructed him on how to keep himself silent. He moved stiffly and unnaturally, the calmness of his pace not quite masking the tremendous effort.

Stan noticed that despite the zombies clear disinterest in Tweaks flesh, they seemed drawn to him like flies to honey. Wandering aimlessly in his general direction, bumping into him, brushing up against him like affectionate house cats. Emptying the other areas, leaving entire streets clear.

"There's an opening, there." Stan pointed to the street to Tweak's extreme right, in the direction of the shelter. "We can make it if we go now."

"And leave him." Ike's voice was small and detached.

Red shook her head meaningfully. "No. No. No one else is going to die."

"Okay," said Stan. "We'll…get his attention. Get him to follow us at a distance. Will he know to lose the zombies?"

Bebe nodded. "Yeah, he usually just scales a building and they lose him."

"Good. We better get going."

After creeping back down into the desolate alley, Stan headed the way. He tried to memorize which turn led to an empty street, peeking around each corner for reassurance. His heart pounded; he hated being at ground level. Even now he kept a steel grip on Ike, squeezing the life out of his fingers. If there was anything driving his survival now, it was Ike. Get the kid home to Kyle, home to his brother. Preserve that last little gleaming bit of humanity left.

Rounding a corner, they were almost out of the town. Stan could see Tweak, but his back was frustratingly turned to them. Before he could think of a way to get Tweaks attention without lighting the firecracker, Bebe picked up a discarded tin can and rolled it down the street. Past the zombies, who followed the sound along with the scrape of metal rolling over concrete. Down a slight decline, picking up pace, and bouncing to a halt against Tweaks foot. He stiffened at the touch.

Bebe gritted her teeth. "C'mon, turn around, turn around."

There was a terrifying moment when Stan thought Tweak would lose it. Shoulders tensing, fists balled, reaching to pull at tangled hair. The, slowly, Tweak turned.

His expression of strained terror melted into shock. Silently, Bebe pointed upwards, then to the shelter. A wave of relief washed over Tweak and he nodded sharply, slowly shuffling towards the nearest building. Astonishingly, the skinny boy wrangled his way up the drain pipe, rusted and looking anything but safe. But it held his slight body, and before long he clambered onto the roof.

Bebe turned immediately. "Let's not stick around. Don't want him to notice we're one short."

Stan took Ike's hand again, ignoring how cold it felt. He had no time to offer Ike any comfort, the best thing was to get back as soon as possible. They ran carefully, past the last crop of empty houses and over the prairie that spread by the old highway. The convenience store was dead in-sight.

Flinging the door open and crossing the thresh hold, Stan felt a great burst of relief to be under a safe roof. It was quickly quelled when Kyle flung himself upward from the couch, worry written all over his face.

"You're  _late!_ " he exclaimed. "I almost sent Leo after you, another hour and-" He stopped. Read their faces. Confusion overtook him. "What ha-"

"Hey, team asshole's home!" Cartman's nasal jeering was quite possibly the worst thing Stan could have ever heard in that moment. He was lounging on the couch with Butters, the cards spread on the cushions between them. And-Stan's heart skipped a beat- Kenny sat on the floor beside them.

"You- you made it," Stan was stunned and relieved.

Kenny smiled wryly. "Don't tell me you were worried, c'mon man. You know me."

"How was raiding?" Cartman continued as though no one else was talking. "Pretty lame without me, I know."

"Cartman, shut up." Bebe's face was a dark storm. "For once, shut the fuck up."

"You first, bi-"

Bebe threw a knife at him.

It whistled through the air, catching the cuff of Cartman's collar and snipping the fabric cleanly, not two inches from Cartman's thick neck. Butters squeaked as the blade whirred past his ear. He looked at Bebe, horrified.

"You give me a reason." Bebe's lips were curled back, teeth bared. Her gaze was deathly and unwavering, and fully serious. "Just one. I'm begging you."

"Bebe!" Butters was terribly startled. "What'd you go on doing that for? You coulda killed him!"

"Then my aim's getting worse."

Slow realization crept over Cartman. "You  _fucking bitch!"_

_"_ _Say that one more time."_

"Guys stop!"

"Stay out of this Leo."

"Woah, Bebe, wha-"

"You fucking whore-"

Amidst the mounting chaos, Ike began shivering violently beside Stan, from frustration or fear or anger, Stan couldn't guess. The boy's head was still bowed.

"Ike," Kyle called. Even softly, his voice had the power to silence everyone else in the room.

Until now Ike had been fixed to Stan's side, but Stan released his grip and the boy fled towards his brother. He stopped right before Kyle, like he was afraid to touch him.

Kyle knelt down. Placed a hand on his young brother.

"It's okay, Ike. I'm here."

Like those were the magic words, Ike flung his arms around Kyle, letting loose horrible wracking sobs. As strong as he possibly could, Kyle wrapped his arm around Ike and held him close, steadied by Ike's embrace. He looked at Stan, his question clear.

A horrible feeling tightened around Stan's heart like fine steel wire, cutting and bleeding.

"They got Craig."

Kyle closed his eyes.

" _What?"_ Butters paled.

Kenny looked sickly. "That's not funny."

Cartman's snarl turned even uglier. "You caused it, didn't you Marsh."

Stan felt an electric jolt as eyes turned to him.

"No." Kyle's eyes remained shut. "He didn't."

"Oh really? You think it's a coincidence? All of us surviving for three whole fucking years, then Marsh shows up and Craig fucking goes and kicks the bucket? He wants an open spot in our group!"

With an emerald flash Kyle silenced Cartman. "You know that's bullshit."

Butters numbly sat back down. "We…we lost Craig?"

Reds lips were thin and pressed. "Yeah. We did." She crossed the room and sat down next to him, and he buried his head in the crook of her neck like a child seeking comfort.

There was a stretch of silence, solemn and heavy as lead. Stan tried to bite his tongue. Yes, it was tragic. Even if he wasn't the friendliest, Craig had seemed like a good guy. He knew how to survive at any rate. But he was gone, and mourning him wouldn't do anything but waste time. Ike was only twelve, and painfully inexperienced thanks to Kyle, so his reaction was at least excusable. But the rest of them were so crippled by the loss it made Stan uneasy. He wanted to seize Kyle and shake him, tell him to take charge of his group. But he couldn't afford to look heartless either, not with Cartman's accusations flying about.

"We have to get moving," he said, breaking the silence after waiting a respectable thirty seconds. "We think it's a camp that fell, that's about five hundred zombies migrating to South Park. It's not going to be safe here."

It was Kyle that registered him first. He gave Ike a final squeeze and rose again. The fierce dignity in his face returned, that innate nobility that inspired in Stan the will to follow. Green eyes glinted surely, sharp and knowing as an eagle.

"Stan's right." His voice was steady, and heads turned towards him, listening. "If there is a herd moving down here, we'll be overrun. We have no choice but to move on."

Just then the door burst open.

Shaking as badly as a leaf in a tornado, Tweak fled into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He gasped and sweated an acrid smell.

"I-I lost them! But there's so so many, like more than I could count, but I didn't see them in the forest! I only saw twelve, I counted twelve, but the rest weren't from the camp site, I think they were from that other camp up north, the really big one. Oh god there's so many, and they're all coming here, and-"

Suddenly, Tweak paused. Confusion flitted over him.

"W-where's Craig?"

No one breathed a word.

"Tweak," said Kyle slowly. "Can you sit down? Please."

Tweak stared at him. "Where's Craig."

"I'll tell you, Tweak, but you have to sit down."

"You tell me right now."

"Honey, listen to him." Red's sweet voice floated from the couch. She stood up, arms held out in a show of surrender, and approached him. "It's going to be okay, I promise you. Please sit down."

The vein in Tweak's neck jumped. His mouth twitched ceaselessly, teeth clenched feverishly. There was an unsettling glint in his eyes.

Red drew closer. He watched her, rooted to the spot.

"Tell me where Craig is."

"It's okay, Tweak."

She was mere footsteps away. Tweak shook the nearer she came.

"It's all going to be okay."

Stan was afraid to breath. He was captivated. Red moved fluidly, words warm as a quilt, open compassion in every movement. The charmer and her flute, singing the cobra into sweet submission.

"Tweak, listen to me. Breathe, and listen."

Stan saw Kenny fixated on Red, intense with apprehension.

"Craig, he loved you so much," Red murmured gently. "He wants you to be okay. Can you be okay for him? For Craig?"

It was like a crack splitting down Tweak's face. He gazed at her brokenly, pale with disbelief. Wordless.

Red took another step.

"Craig, he was brave until the very end. You have to be brave too. Craig wants you to be brave. Remember the love. It'll be okay."

She stood still and waited. The pain in her clear eyes as she gazed at Tweak was incredible, shiningly beautiful in its sorrow. Tweak's lip trembled, and in a needy rush he leapt towards her embrace.

Too late Stan caught the familiar glint slipping out from Tweak's jacket.

Red seized up. Her eyes bulged as she staggered back, doubling over. Reaching for her stomach, bright red blood bubbling over her palm and pooling over onto the floor. Her mouth gaped in shock as Tweak held out the switchblade soaked red to the hilt, the very same Craig had given him for the raid. She swayed, colourless lips fumbling wordlessly.

In a blinding rage Kenny was on Tweak before she even hit the ground. With extreme momentum he pinned Tweak against the wall, squeezing his boney wrist painfully until Tweak released the switchblade. Beneath him Tweak flailed like a tortured animal, screeching.

"YOU KILLED HIM YOU KILLED CRAIG I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU-"

Kenny shoved his bare fist into Tweak's mouth to gag him, but yanked it back with a yell when Tweak bit into his knuckle hard enough to draw blood.

"LET GO OF ME LET GO"

"Someone help Kenny!" Kyle demanded, grabbing Ike and shoving the boy behind him in panic.

I'VE SEEN YOU EAT THEIR FLESH I SAW YOU I SAW YOU-"

Without thought Stan rushed to Tweak and restrained his arms, forcing them behind his back, Bebe catching a hold of his kicking legs. Butters was by Red's side, scrambling frantically.

"You gotta hold on! Red, stay with me! Red! RED!"

Tweak twisted and struggled as though he was drowning, and it was growing more difficult for Stan to keep ahold of him. The panic surging through Tweak amplified his strength, and he kicked Bebe square in the nose, sending her reeling in pain. Cartman advanced and took her place, his massive arms able to completely engulf Tweak's skinny legs. Stan couldn't tell if Cartman was gritted in concentration, or sickly amused by the whole thing.

"Let's get him in the cellar!" Cartman roared over Tweak's shrieking. "And fuck, gag him!"

Kenny stuffed a rag into Tweak's mouth. The screams turned into chokes and splutters, muted enough to avoid drawing the zombies' attention. Kicking open the door, Cartman and Stan carried Tweak out, the boy rigidly convulsing as though possessed. In a burst of strength Tweak wretched one arm free of Stan's grip, but Kenny caught it, screwing the arm back in his grasp. Cartman steered them past the shelter about twenty paces before they came across the square patch of cement, door latched shut. Kenny forced Tweak's arm back to Stan, who took it without a thought. He undid the latch and mustered the strength to pull the heavy door open. Cartman caught Stan's eye.

"Throw him!"

Stan didn't think, he just listened. Together they shoved Tweak through the opening in the ground, hitting the cold concrete with an echoing thud. Kenny letting the door slam down just as Tweak scrambled to his feet. His eyes, electric with fear, were the last thing Stan saw.


	24. Chapter 24

Cartman huffed. "God damn, that fucker can kick!"

The comment was entirely humorless to Stan. Kenny was already dashing back to the shelter, Cartman's jeer unregistered. Stan ran after him, heart pounding, brain reeling. Everything was going so terribly wrong. It was like Camp Colorado all over again.

_Like that first car ride_

_Everything was going to be okay then too_

There was a taciturn emptiness that sucked Stan's breathe away the moment he stepped back into the shelter. Butters was knelt over Red, clinging her hand so fiercely Stan feared it would break. Blood pooled around where he sat, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Dude, you're hurting her," said Stan.

Butters shuddered harder. He shook his head. "She…she's cold."

Kenny was knelt on the floor next to Butters. He cradled Red's head on his lap, stroking her brilliant, fiery hair with naked tenderness. The anguish in his face looked as though he was burning alive. Red's eyes were closed.

"I…I felt her…go cold…" Butters continued, though Stan had the sense he wasn't talking to anyone in the room. "…her hand…it's like ice…"

"Where's Ike?"

"Kyle…took him to the…the sleeping room…didn't want him…to see…." Butters trailed off unintelligibly.

Bebe was looking hard out the window. She didn't do as much as blink when Cartman barged in noisily.

"Fucking Christ Tweak's got some muscle! That kid's scrawny, but he's an asshole."

No one answered him. Cartman scowled and raised a meaty finger to command the attention of the room until his eyes fell on the small body in the middle of the room.

"Hey, what's wrong with Red? Tweak just gave her a scratch, right? I mean, there's no way that asshole has the strength, or the balls to actually, like, I mean he's such a pussy, there's no way."

Butters hiccupped.

"Red would've took his ass down," Cartman continued, oblivious that no one was listening. "She would've fucking wasted him if he tried anything, she's a fucking zombie slayer, she's not fucking retarded."

"No, she's not." Bebe's red lips curved downward. Her skin was stone grey, tired blonde curls drooping over her brow. "Not anymore."

"Shut up Bebe, fucking bitch liar. That's not fucking funny."

"No." Bebe's voice was faded. "It's not."

"But-but Craig's dead already!"

San was struck by how genuine the protest was. Like Cartman sincerely believed that because Craig was dead, there was no way Red could possibly be anything but alive. It was naïve bargaining.

He was somehow less shocked when Cartman slammed him sideways into the wall.

"THIS IS YOU! YOUR FUCKING FAULT!"

Instinctively Stan put his fists up, guarding his chest as he staggered back. Cartman's face was raw and red, fat cheeks puffing as he drew in gasps of air.

"YOU-EVER SINCE YOU SHOWED UP-YOU FUCKED US OVER MARSH!"

Swifter than Stan thought possible Cartman landed another blow across his face, his fist so large it was sure to bruise half of Stan's head. Running his tongue alongside his cheek, Stan tasted blood. It sharpened his senses, and when Cartman swung at him again he was ready. Stan sidestepped around Cartman, lashing a leg out and catching the bend of his knee. With an angry squawk Cartman slammed onto the floor.

Without thinking, Stan punched him over the head. If Cartman hadn't been so big he would have been knocked out. Instead the blow only made him angrier. With a desperate lunge Cartman tackled Stan to the floor. Stan tried to wrestle away, but the boy was so  _big_. There was a sick leer on Cartman's face as he pressed his thick forearm into the crook of Stan's throat. "This is what you fuckin' get, you fucking murderer."

Black spots danced before Stan's vision as the blood slowly rushed from his brain. He struggled, tried to force his fingers into fists and fight back, but Cartman pinned him further. It was like being trapped under a boulder, a three hundred pound boulder. Cartman wasn't just fat, he was burly and broad and strong as iron. Only now did Stan realize how Cartman had survived for all these years. He fought mercilessly, without hesitation. He wasn't afraid to kill.

Then the crushing weight was lifted. Stan gasped for air as he saw Bebe tackling Cartman, heaving her whole body into the action.

"Cartman," she panted, flushed with rage. "Stop it. Fucking…just stop."

"Shut up," Cartman snarled, oddly calm for someone who had been murderous just a second ago. "He's killing us. You know he is. He's manipulating Kyle, and he's manipulating you. All of you. Comes here, weaves a sob story and turns you all into fucking pussies because we all went to the same fucking school when we were ten. Like that means anything now." He shot Stan a look of pure malice. "How do you think he's survived for so long  _on his own_? No decent person would be able to."

"You can't prove any of that." Kenny remained bent at Red's corpse. "Stan would never hurt any of us. He has no reason to. I trust him." He looked up. "I trust him."

Cartman scowled.

Just then Kyle returned. He looked exhausted. "What happened? I heard a fight."

Cartman's whole tune changed. "Oh nothing. Just a friendly disagreement. What took you so long?"

Kyle darkened as Ike slowly walked up behind him, putting his single arm around the small boy's shoulders. Ike could not tear his eyes from Red.

"She-she really is…"

"Yes, Ike."

From the ground Butters burst into tears at Kyle's confirmation, throwing himself Red's unmoving chest and clinging to her like a child. Stan realized she probably had been like a mother to Butters, with her sweet words and kind nature. The boy so desperately needed one, he was so emotionally frail. Stan would worry about Butters if he had the luxury.

There was sour taste on his tongue. He had liked Red. There had been something different about her. Something genuine. Now it was gone.

"We need to move." Stan addressed Kyle more so than the others. "The horde's coming. We don't have long."

"Where do you suggest we go?"

"Anywhere. Away from here."

"That's a fucking plan." Cartman rubbed at his arm, wincing. "Run, forever."

"It's move or die," said Stan harshly.

"You would fucking know."

Butters sobbed softly.

Kyle raised his hand. "Stop it. All of you. Leo. Leopold."

The thin boy raised his head, snot and tears smeared down the front of his shirt.

Kyle's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked strange, disconnected. "Pull yourself together. We need to pack," Kyle addressed the room, iron authority soldering his voice. "And we need to figure out what to do with Tweak." Beside him Ike winced, but Kyle made no show of noticing.

"What do you mean 'figure out'? We're leaving him," Cartman demanded. He turned around the room for support.

Kenny clenched his teeth. "I agree. He's a danger. He…Christ, he killed Red. You can't be serious."

"Can't I?" Kyle's eyes flashed dangerously. "Is that an order, McCormick? Do  _you_  want to lead this group? Maybe you think it'll be easier now that there are fewer members."

Kenny blanched a hot red. He glowered at Kyle, but the tall redhead met his gaze.

"Maybe you think I'm no longer competent," Kyle continued in a low voice, "now that I have only one arm. Maybe you've been hiding all the answers up your sleeve this entire time. Maybe  _you_  could sleep at night knowing that Craig died because of  _your_ orders, knowing that everything went wrong the minute you became  _defective_. I don't know. Tell me."

Kenny's fingers twitched. But he held his tongue and sat down.

"Now," Kyle continued, reverting to his calm, collected front at the flick of a switch, "Tweak. He comes with us or he stays behind. Those are the only two clear options I see."

"We leave him to rot." Cartman's fat lips curled into an ugly grimace. "Let him fucking starve, I say. It's a damn sight more than he deserves."

"He might try to follow us," Kenny said darkly.

"Then we kill him."

Weakly, Butters raised his hand. "I-I don't want to leave Tweak."

Cartman's eyes bulged. "What?! What the fuck, Leo? Look at Red! Look at her! She's right there at your fucking feet."

Butters shook his head firmly through his tears. "I don't-I mean-Red wouldn't have wanted this. She told Tweak-think about what Craig would have wanted, but he didn't listen. Now he's in the cellar."

"Because he killed her! Are you fucking retarded, you stupid fuck?"

Butters shut his mouth. With his large blue eyes and pert nose, he looked like a child on the verge of tears. The contrast of his sharp cheeks and hollow, sunken eyes made him tragic and otherworldly. One of the lost boys from the fairy tales that lived forever but never grew up.

Kenny ran his fingers through his golden hair. "What about you, Stan? What do you think we should do?"

Worms squirmed in Stan's stomach. He honestly didn't know what to think. On one hand, Tweak was unhinged and dangerous, suffering from severe emotional trauma. He'd reverted to instinct and attacked like a rabid animal. And that was what bothered Stan. He remembered the boy on the roof, friendly, talkative even if a bit unhinged. But Stan had not seen a killer. He knew the look well. Cold shark eyes as their faces relaxed into that dead stare when they thought no one was watching them. It was as though ice ran through their veins instead of hot, living blood.

Stan tried to think that he did not recognize himself in them. He was a survivor. He didn't murder in cold blood. But then neither had Tweak.

And, truth be told, he didn't want to lose anyone else.

"I agree with Butters. We can't kill him."

Kenny was dumbfounded. "Stan, he killed one of us."

"I know, but this isn't the answer." Stan held firm. "We can't kill one of our own. We can't cross that line. We can't turn on each other." He glanced at Ike, but the small boy didn't seem to be listening.

"We?" Cartman guffawed. "Look at him! Two days and he's already weaseling himself into our group!"

"Stan  _is_  a part of our group," Kyle said severely. "That's already been decided."

"Not by my vote," Cartman grumbled, but he shut up afterwards.

Kenny's mouth twitched. "Stan, Tweak murdered Red. He murdered her. He already killed one of our own."

"Those moods he gets in, he's not himself." Stan looked into Kenny's eyes, yearning for him to understand. "He just goes berserk, total animal instinct, and I know he's got paranoia issues too. That's not a rational human being, that's a cocktail of fucked up and fear. Fear, Kenny."

"But this is different, he  _murdered_ -"

"Kenny," Stan pleaded. "He's not a killer. You saw Tweak, he was out of his mind! We can't condemn him for that, not with death."

Antagonized, Kenny's eyes narrowed. "I don't give a shit if he did it  _in his sleep_. He took Red from us. She's gone. I can't forgive that." He rubbed his forearm like he was warming himself. "I won't."

"Kenny, you-"

"Fuck off Marsh."

Somewhere in his mind Stan knew the words weren't meant for him. This whole situation was so, so fucked up, the pumping heart of the group being ripped out and eaten before Stan's eyes. Veins bursting and blood spraying the survivors, emotional carnage littering the room. Kenny was soaked in it, blood sheeting his sockets until all he saw was red. He spat red at Stan, trying to repel his blood-coated lips and recover that squeaky clean  _everybody I love is alive_ feeling.

Stan understood that feeling. He knew it well, too well to forget, though he tried. But the words, those three words, burned him like acid.  _Fuck off Marsh._

"Look." Stan put his hands up after realizing he has let the silence stretch for far too long. "I'm not going to sentence that kid to death." That look in Tweak's eyes, that fear _. He was too erratic to have meant it._ "If we kill him…we can't take that back."

Kenny looked at Stan with outright disgust. The shift was so vivid it shocked Stan. "Like you've never killed anybody before? C'mon Stan! You're smarter than this!"

Oddly Stan found himself repulsed by Kenny's coercing. That golden skin and twinkling eyes suddenly weren't so pretty, tainted with vengeance. The acid etched deeper.

"You overestimate me," he said coldly.

Affronted, Kenny's mouth curled into an unpleasant frown. He seemed to be swallowing words, but he stared hard at Stan with a mixture of hurt and distain. As though to say  _how could you be so fucking stupid?_

Stan swallowed hard, cursing himself for the harsh words. Why did he have to feel so strongly about everything Kenny did? It was ridiculous, he was being ridiculous. When did he give Kenny the power to scorch him this way?

"And Bebe," Kyle continued rather loudly. "What do you think?"

Bebe was again perched by the window, lost in her own thoughts. She gazed out at the dismally grey sky, clouds crushing against one another as they rolled onward. Leaning her body forward, she seemed drawn to them. For the first time Stan noticed how slight she was. With her voluptuous red lips and mane of blonde hair, Bebe exuded presence. But now she was withdrawn and distant, all the spirit beaten out of her. A caged canary yearning to fly far away.

"Bebe?"

"I don't care."

Kyle paused deliberately. "Bebe, I know you cared for Red. We need your help making this decision."

Already shaking her head to reject Kyle's words, Bebe wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "When she was alive. I cared when she was alive. I don't-I don't care about Tweak. I just don't care."

"B-but you gotta!" Surprisingly, it was Butters' soft voice that rose above the gloom. "Bebe, you can't stop caring, you can't. Please, please don't do this to me. Y-you've always been the s-strong one."

"Yeah, well."

"NO!" Butters flew to his feet. He shook with rage, damp tears still staining his cheeks. "YOU always tell ME to SUCK IT UP! It's just a FEELING, you say. It can't HURT you. You're being STUPID, you're being WEAK. You don't get to say those things and then GET TO GIVE UP!" Butters was shaking, transformed. Every edge sharpened, twinkling blue eyes frozen over with deadly frost. This was the boy who had pointed a rifle at Stan, ready to shoot a stranger who dared threaten his home. This boy's name was Leopold.

But the mask slipped off, and he erupted into tears all over again.

Bebe blinked, stunned. The tendons in her neck strained, and her fingers reached into the ragged pocket of her worn jeans. For a second Stan thought she was reaching for her throwing knife, but instead, she pulled out a thin line of glittery silver. She clenched it in her fist and brought it to her mouth, pressing her lips to the sparkling string. Her smile was empty.

"We…we were gonna be 'best friends forever'," she mumbled quietly. "Me and her, after Wendy died. It was just us. We promised each other we wouldn't let South Park turning into a fucking boy's club. We'd prove them wrong. Girls could be survivors too."

"Is that why you're upset?" Cartman marveled contemptuously. "Because you're the only girl left? Fucking Christ that's some retarded shit!"

Bebe's head snapped up. "You don't know  _anything_ ," she growled, her words driving deep as a dagger. "You have NO idea what it's like to be a girl in this fucked up world. What a fucking CURSE it is being born with a  _fucking vagina_."

Cartman's eyes flickered down. "Your…vagina. Is a curse. Your. Vagina."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you probably don't recognize the term. Should I say pussy instead? How about  _cunt_ , how's that?"

It was the first time Stan had ever seen Cartman so embarrassed. The fat boy looked like a ripe tomato, his face was so violently red. Suddenly remembering Ike was in the room, Stan glanced at the pale boy, but he appeared to be unfazed. It was unsettling how listless the boy was.

"But you know what, it doesn't fucking matter anymore." As Bebe fiddled with the glittery string, Stan could see it was a necklace. Just a cheap, tinny thing with half a heart dangling from it, one of those two dollar friendship things girls exchanged at sleepovers. Shelley had one that she'd wore around her neck a solid month, refusing to take it off even for church and Mom threatened to ground her. Bebe held it like it was worth all the gold in the world. "Nothing fucking matters anymore."

"Okay," Kyle said simply, like he was trying to talk Bebe down from a bridge. "That's okay. You don't want to vote?"

"I don't care."

"Okay."

Cartman opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Kyle threatened him with a glare.

Stan tallied up the votes in his head.

"So that's two and two. What's your vote, Kyle?"

"I don't." Kyle was already shaking his head. "I never do.  _Shit_. We don't have time to argue this."

Kenny slammed his fist into the floor. Everyone jumped as the sound cracked through the room. "This is  _bullshit_ , we shouldn't be arguing this at all! We leave him."

"No, we shouldn't do anything we can't take back!" Butters tore back. The passion for his argument overrode his tearful anguish, but his voice was ragged. "We're not mindless killing monsters! We already HAVE th-tho-!" Words dissolved as Butters' emotions overrode him, and his face wretched as he shook with silent sobs.

"Yeah!" Cartman exclaimed with false enthusiasm. "And we can all hold hands beneath a rainbow and sing about how fucking gay we are! I think half this groups needs to grow some _fucking balls_."

Stan didn't dare to directly address Cartman, a behemoth in anger. He did not want to waste another hour with useless fighting and raised voices. Instead he spoke calmly and directly, the words carrying through what felt like sheer will. "What do you think, Ike?"

At the sound of his name, Ike's head snapped up. He blinked slowly. Glanced down at Red's body, still freshly bled.

"I…I don't know."

"C'mon kid, this is simple," said Cartman. "You saw that fucker. You saw what he did. Do you really think he deserves to live?"

Ike bit his lip. "You think he should die…because he killed Red."

"Yeah! Now you're getting the idea."

"Then…then by that logic…I should die too."

"No, stop Ike-"

"Ike that's bullshit-"

"-such bullshit Ike-"

"Don't you ever think-"

Protests rose immediately from all different voices, and Kyle gripped his small brother hard on the shoulder. Stan noticed with a rush that Kenny shouted out the exact same words as he had.

"But that's totally different!" Cartman puffed up in protest like a blowfish. "You didn't taking a- you didn't- like- fuck, it was the zombies! The zombies! You can't use that as an argument, it doesn't count! It was the fucking zombies!"

Ike didn't look convinced. "If I had just…just killed that kid, Craig would still be here. I've thought about it. It's true. I wasted probably thirty seconds. We would have left thirty seconds earlier, and Craig would have been thirty seconds ahead of that…th-those…"

Stan stared at him, stunned. "Ike…there's no way to prove any of that."

"Yeah, I mean," Kenny wiped his nose, looking unsure. "I wasn't there, but something else might've happened. Maybe that kid would've bit  _you_  if you went at it right away."

Ike shrugged. "Maybe that would've been better."

"No." Kyle snapped like a twig, eyes ablaze. He teetered on the edge of frustration, barely tethering it like a balloon whipping about in the wind on a line of thread. Stan recognized it in the lines in Kyle's brow and the set of his jaw. "No, Ike. Never."

He voice rang, meaningful but intense, and almost  _scary_. Like everything would come crashing down if Ike wasn't okay. Even if Kyle didn't mean it, he was placing a massive burden on the kid. But then again, so did Stan on that rooftop, the first time Ike fell apart. It really was all about survival in this world. Ike was soft hearted, but he was still only twelve.  _He'll grow out of it. I did. It's not soft, keeping Tweak alive. It's common sense, for fucks sake! There's…eight of us now. Eight._ Mulling it over, Stan liked eight a hell of a lot better than seven. But seven was better than one, so he needed to tread carefully around this. It was a delicate battle between what his mind artfully dictated - _convince them, use your words Marsh-_ and what instinct screamed – _grab Ike and bolt._

Stan caught Ike's eye, trying to soften his face. He wanted Ike to listen, but not out of fear.

"Ike…you remember what I told you. On the roof."

Ike's eyes flitted over invisible memories, and he nodded childishly. "Yeah but-"

"But nothing."  _Slow down, he's just a kid._ "Ike, it doesn't matter what happened. It's done, it's over. These people, Ike, they love you so damn much. No one is blaming you for Craig except you. And you gotta forgive that."

Ike sniffed.

Stan dared to press further, cautiously. "People die, Ike. Craig, Red. My mom, my dad, Shelley, they're all the same now." As he spoke, he was struck by his own insight. With no one to voice his thoughts to, it was easy to forget he had any thoughts at all. "Ike, did I kill my family?"

It struck the room. The question visibly jarred Ike, and he blinked like he didn't hear Stan right.

"Ike," Stan repeated, furiously ignoring everyone gawking. "Do you think I killed my family?"

"…no…"

"Do you know what happened to my family?"

Ike didn't speak, but Stan could hear him thinking. Reluctance and grief fighting brutally with simple reason. And Ike was a rational creature. Stan had not lost faith in him yet.

"They…were killed…by…"

Stan waited for Ike to finish the thought. He didn't want to fill the kid's mouth with words. If Ike didn't find the answer within himself, it would be meaningless.

"…by…zombies. It was the zombies."

"Do you know how old I was, Ike?"

"How old?" A sliver of curiosity crept into the statement. Stan pounced on it.

"Eleven. Not quite twelve, but close. Me and Mom, we ran from Shelly and Dad, so I didn't see them turn. But I saw Mom." The memory swept over Stan. "She got bit, and you know what I did?"

"What?"

"I climbed a tree."

"You climbed a tree."

"Yep. Stayed up there all night. I mean, I guess I could've tried to do something. I wasn't experienced, or strong, had zero coordination. And there were thousands of zombies, only one of me. Maybe I should've jumped down and grabbed a tree branch and started swinging. Maybe because I didn't, my mom died, and it's all my fault. As good as if I killed herself."

"But-" Ike stopped when he realized the trap Stan had set for him. He cleared his throat as though words caught in it, cluttered like dry leaves. Stan waited patiently.

"But…" Ike repeated, mumbling so low Stan strained to hear him. "…you would've died. You were…just a kid. There wasn't anything you could do." He finished the last words quietly, meant only for himself and Stan.

"Yeah, Ike."

Ike inched closer to Kyle, so subtly he might not even have been aware. He took Kyle's hand hesitantly, but Kyle regripped it and squeezed powerfully. He could not tear his eyes from his little brother, shining with gratitude.

"Ike, what you think matters. Do you want to vote?" Kyle was trying out his newer angle-the soft, understanding older brother. It was like trying to wriggle into an ill-fitting suit. The deliberate beats and airy quality of the words were premeditated, obvious to Stan. But he understood Kyle's intentions, and those were pure. He wondered if that was how  _he_ had sounded when he talked to Ike, sharing with him the moment when it had all fallen apart for Stan Marsh. Pouring words like warm tea mixed with honey.

Ike thought for a moment. He inhaled deeply, mustering up within himself the courage to speak.

"I think... I don't want to leave Tweak."

Before Cartman could even lift a finger Kyle stared down his nose at him, sharp and sure as an eagle. The demand for silence was smartly obvious.

"Well, then. I think that's clear," he said evenly. "Three against two. I want Cartman and Kenny packing. Stan and Leopold go to Tweak, see what condition he's in. Talk to him, assess whether or not he's stable. If he is, bring him in. If not, come and get me." When Kyle finished, he grew somber and turned to Bebe. "Bebe, I would like you to help me with Red."

"A little late, don't you think?" The jibe turned cold in the air.

Impulsively, Stan's gaze flitted to the ground. Red was growing cold on the floor, blood gently blooming around her. The sticky red seeped through the thin soles of Stan's boots, squelching between his toes. She was so pale her skin tinged blue, bringing life to her hair. She reminded Stan of the stain glass saints decorating the windows of the church. Even the veins of blood slithering down her mimicked cracked glass.

"I want to give her a proper send-off," said Kyle. "Craig too. We owe them that much."

Bebe did not speak, but she nodded mechanically.

"Alright, we'll regroup in a bit. I'll say when, don't worry about it. Just do as much as possible. Stan, Leopold, I'll send Ike for you if Tweak isn't stabilized by then."

Slowly, everyone dispersed. Stan was unsure of what Butters would do, but the meek blonde lifted himself up and, with a great sniffle, stitched himself together. The stitching threads were loose though, strained to the maximum. It would not take much to rip them.


	25. Chapter 25

Stan and Butters left the shelter and journeyed over the flat landscape, kicking up clouds of dust that burst in the wind. Under the sprawling sky Stan could already feel the pressure slowly hissing out a balloon. The plains grounded him, but the distant buzz killed any sense of peace. Stan wasn't sure, but the groans sounded closer.

Ike was better. Just knowing it filled Stan with a tingling warmth, relaxing the knot twisted in his guts. It was so natural to care for the boy, like breathing, it simply happened. Stan wasn't quite sure why, out of all the people he crossed, it was Ike that ate up his affections. Even Kyle and Kenny were distant strangers, though Stan was irrefutably forged to both of them. He figured Ike's age played a role. It was that ancient human instinct to protect children, to pass on the genes of the next generation and ensure the survival of the race. When the earth was unspoiled, roamed by men with spears and woman wrapped in fleshy furs, clutching swaddled infants.  _Things are a little different these days._  Tart amusement rose in Stan.  _More killing, less food. No babies. Not such a great deal for the humans._

He couldn't muster the same concern for Butters, hard as he tried. The slender blond was a dark could shuffling behind him, sucking out every bit of energy. Every smile, every word was a grievous effort, making Stan feel more robotic and awkward the harder he tried. He sounded false even to himself when he turned and asked, damnably bright, "So, how're you doing, Butters?"

Butters looked like an insomniac, exhausted, always jolting awake at those last seconds of slipping consciousness, wishing wistfully for even a second of sweet peace. He peered at Stan, puffy eyed and sickly.

"I….I don't know, Stan. I don't-I mean, Craig's-he's just…and Red too…." He sighed. "I thought it was finally working out."

"What was?"

Butters shrugged. "I don't even know anymore….Life? The meaning of it all? Why are we here, is there any purpose to anything anymore? I mean, the universe sure as heck doesn't want us sticking around."

"Oh. Well, maybe it's not so complicated?" Stan struggled for words. "Like, maybe life's all about the present, living for what you have, all that? When you start thinking about meaning and stuff, it all gets complicated."

"So this is it then?" Butters asked, dismayed. "We're here, we fight, we die, and nothing. What's the point of even trying?"

"Well…" Stan thought for a moment. "…the people around you, I guess."

"What kept you going when you were alone for all that time? How did you do it?"

"I guess I never thought about it."  _I wouldn't let myself think about it, I won't, I won't._ "I just…switched off and…survived."

Butters kicked up a patch of dust. He watched the tiny grains dusting the air until the wind whisked them away. Stan wondered if he was even listening. He didn't speak again.

Soon they were at the storm shelter, a weathered grey square embedded in the earth. Butters eyed the latch unsurely. "How should we -I mean, he might try to attack us."

"Yeah," Stan had the same thought. "You open the door, I'll wait on the side. I'll grab him before he tries anything."

Butters gaped at him.

"If he tries anything," Stan hastily corrected.

Butters poised himself by the latch, fingers flexing. Stan stood ready to the side. In one swift flick, Butters undid the latch like he was diffusing a bomb.

Nothing happened. Butters glanced at Stan, then gripped the stiff handle and heaved it open.

Stan squinted into the darkness. He couldn't see anything beyond the concrete stairs leading downwards, a couple of boxes scattered at the bottom. There was no noise either. Absolutely no sign of anything living in the storm cellar.

Stiff fear gripped Stan. "Tweak. Tweak, you there?"

A soft whimper echoed from the darkness.  _Oh thank god, he's alive._ Tentatively, Stan took the first step, dipping his feet and testing the waters.

"Hey Tweak, it's me, Stan. Do you, uh, wanna come out?"

Words always sounded better to Stan before he spoke them, and he cringed at his own bluntness. As expected, it was met with nothing but more snivels.

"Okay, Tweak, that's okay. Um…" Stan turned to Butters, startling him. After a beat, Butters cleared his throat.

"Tweak, we gotta get moving, there's a bunch of zombies on the way." Butters was already naturally soft, but when he made an effort to be light and gentle, his words flitting like playful dandelion fuzz. "Can you come out, so we can talk? I just wanna talk, Tweak."

But the heady silence revealed that Butters was beating his head against a brick wall too. Nothing happened, and Stan realized that without light, Tweak had been entirely in the dark for the past while. Literally, utterly wrapped in heavy pitch blackness. Stan envisioned Tweak, quivering like a rabbit, curled into a tiny ball in the furthest corner. He took another step. "Tweak?"

There was a distinct chill the lower he went, stale and musty. Stan heartily wished for a lighter, a flashlight, even a match. Butters loitered around the entrance. "I-uh…I'll wait up here."

Stan flashed Butters a thumbs up, keeping his face turned so Butters would be spared his visible annoyance. Could that kid do anything but piss around and cry?  _No, no Marsh, that's mean. Don't be that guy._

"Tweak, I'm coming in," Stan warned, the instinctual part of his brain already anticipating an attack. "Can you hear me?"

Again, Tweak didn't answer, so Stan followed the crying noises. He felt blindfolded, and he even blinked a couple of times to remind himself that his eyes were open. As he drew closer he realized the sobs were somewhere below him, that Tweak must have been sitting or laid on the icy concrete. Gingerly, Stan extended a hand, groping aimlessly for the boy.

"Tweak, you're going to feel my hand soon, okay? This is Stan, still. Uh, so don't –like –attack me, please. I just want to help."

He was very close.

"Okay, I think…I think I'm right next to you."

The trembling sobs came from a very small source right at Stan's feet. Stan squatted down so he wouldn't tower over Tweak. Even at this muted height, Tweak's presence was so diminished Stan felt like he was bending down to stroke a cat. He reached out slowly, and his fingers brushed woolly fabric.

Tweak stiffened at the touch, but trembled harder. He sobbed again, and cringed away.

"L-l-lea-leave...I-I want you to l-l-leave…."

Whatever else Tweak might have said was muffled and distorted by the wretchedness that sobbed from him. He gathered that Tweak was curled up on his side, knees drawn to his chest in fetal position. The universal body language for  _I'm fucked._

Stan bit his lip. Just like with Butters, nothing particularly stirred up to move him to genuinely sympathize with Tweak. He worried whether or not that meant he was a bad person. He screwed his eyes shut and pictured Ike. It helped him relaxed a touch, and he felt a bit warmer. Stan rubbed Tweak's shoulder gently.

"Hey bud, I know it's tough right now. But things are going to be okay."

"I-I-I w-want…I want C-c-c…"

"I know." Stan's throat burned. "I know you do. But he wanted you to survive." When Stan realized he was repeating Red's own words, his eyes welled up. His heart clenched. "You need to live without him, Tweak."

There was a swishing noise, like Tweak was shaking his head against the floor.

It was clear that Tweak would not be walking out of the cellar, so Stan fiddled his other arm beneath what felt like Tweak's boney knees, but when he grazed the ground, his bare fingers smeared against something wet. There was a strange crunching as Tweak shifted over the ground.

Then Stan smelled it, thick and metallic.

"Tweak…are you bleeding?"

Tweak muttered a string of incoherent nonsense, but as Stan spread his fingers over the ground, he found more warm wetness. The hairs on his neck tingled, and he cried out when his hand slipped on something sharp. It pricked his finger, and warmth trickled downward.

 _Shit shit SHIT._ Stan tried to lift Tweak as carefully as he could, not know the cause of the bleeding. He didn't know what to elevate, where to put pressure, he might even be opening fresh wounds with his rough grip. He eased upwards, Tweak cradled in his arms like a baby. The boy did not stop twitching. To Stan it felt like the final spasms of a dying animal.

Reemerging into the warm bath of sunlight, comforting even filtered through grey stretches of cloud, Stan's blood chilled when he saw Tweak properly for the first time.

Pale blue skin littered with tiny bleeding pinpricks, purple red pockmarks glinting with glass still embedded. His lips were bitten raw, blood bubbling forth with every sob and staining his teeth. There were bigger shards sticking out of his forearms and the palms of his hands, as though Tweak had slipped and fallen head first into a glittering pile of broken glass. His entire body looked bruised. What caught Stan's eye was the frighteningly large fragment slit into Tweak's throat, firmly stuck. The outer edges of the cut were red and swollen, the glass was plugging up all the blood. A trickle of red leaked from Tweak's hair down his forehead. His doe eyes were glassy and faraway.

Butters stared at Tweak. "Oh my god..."

Stan's head was spinning. "Where would he get glass?"

"There were jars, pickles and olives and stuff, preserved foods…we actually finished them off a few days before you came…we kept the jars down there, just in case we needed them…oh my god."

Butters retched, vomiting into the dead grass. Tweak's head tilted, and his expression screwed up in pain as Stan lowered him to the ground.  _Think soft, think soft, gentle._ Tweak felt so fragile, china bones and satin skin riddled with scars.

"Go get Kyle."

Butter fled, flecks of vomit flying off him.

"Tweak, c'mon Tweak." Stan brushed sticky blond hair from Tweak's brow. "Don't do this, you're gonna be fine."

"I-I'm g-g-gonna…see C-craig…"

"No you aren't, not yet."

Tweak's white fingers scrambled around the thick glass in his neck, wriggling it deeper. Stan slapped them away.

"Stop this Tweak, you stop this now. You hear me? Stop it."

Behind him he heard soft footsteps crunching. Dirt and rust cloyed in the air, making his nose twitch. A thin shadow crossed over him.

"Shit. I was afraid of this." Kyle leaned closer, planting his hand on Stan's shoulder as he wobbled. "Leo, get cloth, bandages, alcohol. Tell Ike to help Kenny, and for god's sake, don't let him know what's going on. Keep a cool head."

Recoiling, Butters was more than happy to leave.

Using Stan as a crutch, Kyle eased himself down. He surveyed Tweak, wrinkles of thought creasing his brow. Dust settled in his curly hair, dirtying the crisp orange with sandy specks. Stan didn't mind, it felt like a gesture of comradery. He warmed to the touch, quelled by the dying boy in his arms.

"How deep is that?"

"Probably...half an inch? Maybe deeper." Stan unwillingly inspected the stuck glass, stomach flip flopping. "If it's in that one big neck vein, there's not much we can do."

"You mean the jugular?"

"The what?"

"That's the name of it. Ike read it in some medical book."

"Oh. Well, if it's in the jugular, we have a problem."

"Yeah. Can he hear us?"

"I think so, but I don't think he's listening to what we're saying."

"Tweak? Tweak. Can you hear me?"

Tweak coughed sticky phlegm, brown eyes searching wildly until they found Kyle. "Y-yea…"

"Good, keep listening to me." Kyle slipped his hand under the crook of Tweak's neck, relieving Stan. "Get on the other side of him. When Leo gets back I want you to get the shard out and stop the bleeding. Can you do that?"

Stan nodded quickly. "I've stitched deeper cuts, but never on the neck. I'm not sure if it's different or more sensitive or something."

Kyle's eyebrows shot up. "You want to stitch it?"

"Well, yeah. Otherwise it'll just bleed through the bandage."

"Okay, fine," Kyle agreed hastily. "I trust you know what you're doing."

Stan's mouth was dry. "Sure."

Butters returned with bundles of worn clothes, red-faced and flustered. "This - _pant_ \- was the most - _pant-_ I could find. I told Ike - _pant-_  that Tweak was - _pant-_ cold."

Kyle's lip curled. "I'm sure he believed that."

"Butters, go grab the fishing line," said Stan. "And is there a sewing needle? Or even a pin, something like that?"

"Uh, there's, um, we got nails. Like for wood. And, um…"

"Okay, that's fine." Stan's mind scrambled to improvise. "Those, the fishing line, and the alcohol. Bring a hunting knife too, and if you see anything that could poke tiny holes, bring that too."

Butters dashed away. Stan's fingertips tingled as he delicately pinched the jagged corners of the glass shard, the wider end spanning the width of his palm. Luckily, only the thin sliver of the end was embedded, but Stan couldn't tell how deep the fracture went, nor if it angled inwardly. He glanced at the heap of clothes beside him.

"Prop his head up, Kyle. And, uh, do you know how to breathe for someone else?"

"You mean mouth-to-mouth."

Stan paused. "Yeah, that's it."

"Yes, I do. Ike reads  _a lot."_

"Good, 'cause when this comes out," Stan tapped the glass, "Tweak might stop breathing."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "You say that like you've done this before."

Stan snorted. "You'd be surprised. Get ready."

Stan breath escaped as he began to tug the glass out. Tweak cried out weakly, limbs seizing in protest, fumbling sluggishly at the intrusion. An inch of glass slowly slipped out, smeared orangey red. Stan grimaced. Evenly, he pulled out a little more, careful not to wiggle the glass and tear the skin further. Blue veins ran like rivers beneath Tweak's papery skin, begging to be slashed open.  _This kid needs a thicker skin,_  Stan thought, before realizing he wasn't funny.

Blood oozed from the cut as Stan eased out another half inch, flowing leisurely. The thin glass swayed freely, no longer wedged in the sinewy muscles in Tweak's neck. Stan bit his tongue. It was now or never.

He jerked the glass out.

" _aaaAAAAHHH_ "

Glossy blood spurted out. Tweak threw his head back and screeched for a split-second until Kyle stuffed a dirty shirt in his mouth. Warm flecks splattered Stan as he immediately clotted the flow with a rag. He moved swiftly, but delicately, not wanting to crush Tweak's throat. The bleeding boy's eyes rolled back, he slumped over.

"Check if he's breathing."

Kyle placed a finger beneath Tweak's nose. "Ah…faintly. I think. Yeah, yes he's breathing."

"Good."

Stan ripped a strip of cloth and wound it around Tweak's neck. His hands slipped and fumbled, the blood a slick oil.

Tweak coughed.

Kyle fixated on the boy. "Is-is he choking?"

"Maybe. Is he breathing?"

"Um…no. Shit. He's not."

Stan was sweating, working a second strip over the slit. Tweak didn't have much time. " _Dude_."

Kyle jolted. "Right, right." He dipped over and pinched Tweak's nose, crushing their lips together and giving a steady puff. When he withdrew, Kyle's mouth was scarlet. "There's blood. I think-I think that's what he's choking on."

"Probably."

Spitting red, Kyle dove again. Working over Tweak, Stan could see his birdlike ribcage expand beneath his sweater as air filled his lungs. He ripped a third strip, daring to tie it tighter. Blood spotted through the thick fabric.  _Where the fuck is Butters?_

Kyle spluttered and jerked back as Tweak twitched, spitting a fountain of blood and saliva. Wet flecks splattering every which way. A rattle inhale punctured the air.

"He's breathing!" Kyle was breathless. "He's not conscious, but he's breathing."

"Wh-what's happening?"

Stan cursed when he heard the small voice. " _Shit,_  he doesn't need to see this," he muttered to Kyle.

An angry line creased Kyle's forehead. "Leo, get Ike inside now."

Hair tousled, Butters presented his flat palm to Stan, revealing two tiny pink gems. "I-I'm sorry, I couldn't think of anything to say, he just followed me, but  _look_ , I found these, they might work for stitches. I already soaked them in alcohol, so no diseases."

Keeping a careful amount of pressure on Tweak's neck, Stan examined one of the earrings. Each had a thin metal end, actually designed for piercing human skin. Stan was so relieved he could have kissed Butters. "These are perfect! Where did you find them?"

"I…um….they were Red's…."

Stan prickled. "Oh."

"Y-yeah…was-was that okay?"

"Leo," Kyle said stiffly. "Get Ike inside. Now."

"I want to help."

"Ike, no."

"Kyle, plea-"

" _No_."

"Wait, Ike," Stan heard himself say. "Come here and elevate Tweak's head."

Kyle gawked at him. "He shouldn't be seeing this."

"It's happening," Stan said firmly, staring down Kyle's eagle eyes. "I don't really see the benefit in hiding it."

Ike froze for a moment, unsure. Then he knelt by Tweak and lifted the blonde's unconscious head into his lap. "Like this?"

"Yeah, perfect."

Ignoring Kyle's sour silence, Stan slowly peeled the crusting fabric up to expose the ugly wound. The blood gurgling to a close at Ike's elevation, skin raw and puffed up. Stan exhaled greatly, relieved. If the bleeding was finished already, Tweak must have missed his major vein, the jugular,  _whatever_. The gaping wound was shiny and deep, but there were no glass bits buried deep inside. Stan took an earring and plucked the sliver back off, exposing the needle end. He pinched the edge of the laceration and flattened the skin between his fingers, pushing the poking metal through.

Tweak was too far gone to react, numbly groaning as Ike held his head in place. Ike didn't flinch as Stan poked the next hole through the swelling skin, but he couldn't tear his eyes from it either, flushing green.

Finishing up the line of punctures, Stan took the fishing line and roughly laced the skin together, the pressure causing more blood to spurt forth and slick his fingers.  _C'mon, almost there, just like tying your shoes._  Tying the end of the thin line in a knot, Stan found he could breathe again. Finding that his hands were rather weak, he ripped new strips and wrapped them around Tweak's neck, catching the remaining blood. The sharp snuffles were a resounding reminder that Tweak was still living.

"Is…is it done?" Kyle sounded uncertain, searching Tweak's white face. Lids fluttered shut, Tweak was soundly asleep, the thick mixture of blood loss and stress draining.

Stan brushed his floppy black hair back. It swept beneath his brows, fringing his view. He would have to remind himself to cut it soon. "Yeah. We can't wait for him to wake up, though. That could be a full night."

"Right..." Kyle trailed off.

Stan could tell what Kyle was thinking, though he was obviously reluctant to say it. Stan decided to save him the trouble. He volunteered instead. "I'll carry him. Until he wakes up."

Kyle nodded in expected accordance. "Bebe's not physically strong enough, Cartman wouldn't, and Tweak would be…unpredictable if he came to in Kenny's arms."

"For sure." Stan agreed easily, hiding his twinge of annoyance. The strain that clung to Kyle was palpable, twitching to go off on the nearest offense. Likely Butters, maybe Cartman. Certainly not Ike, even Kyle could reign in his temper that much. He scooped up Tweak's body, feather light.

Ike hovered near Stan, small. "I don't want Tweak to die too."

"I know, kiddo. And he won't, not from this. Me and Kyle patched him up good, and you helped just fine."

Ike's ears went pink. "Thanks, Stan."

Stan ruffled Ike's dark hair, and though it could have been a trick of the light, or even a manifestation of what Stan desperately wanted, he thought he saw a smile flicker over the boy's face.

 


	26. Chapter 26

The shelter whirred with what Stan could only describe as organized chaos. Kenny darted back and forth, four or five backpacks slung over each arm swinging heavily. He alternated between filling some packs and dropping others by Cartman, who sat like a great pudding on the floor. He sorted through cans, weapons, tossing some and stuffing others in the packs with a small nod. Rejected guns and knives skittered like cockroaches. The center of the room was stripped bare, couches pushed to the walls, the large, brown stain in the middle sending chills down Stan's spine. There was a heavily blemished bed sheet abandoned by it, as though someone was using it to mop up the blood. Further along the wall was another yellowed sheet draped over something unmoving, gentle dips and stretches revealing the delicate poke of a nose, graceful swoop of a neck, subtle breasts, a valley of white to the hips and swathed all the way down to the final canyon of Red's feet. Stan's throat went dry.

Cartman laid eyes on Tweak and wrinkled his nose. "The fuck happened to him?"

Stan shrugged, Tweak's head flopping over his arm. He wasn't particularly interested in engaging with Cartman at this moment.

Luckily, Kyle answered for him. "He tried to cut his throat with a piece of broken glass. Whether it was during his fit or he was lucidly trying to commit suicide, we're not sure yet."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Fuck, even  _Tweak_  wants Tweak dead."

"That's  _not_  confirmed," Kyle said harshly.

"Whatever," Cartman batted the comment away. "Packing's almost done. Right, Ken?"

Dropping the empty backpacks all at once with a loud thud, Kenny heaved a sigh. Weariness hung off him like an old coat, redefining his features. He was still devilishly handsome, but seriousness made him stony and unapproachable, the difference between a fox and a wolf. "Yep. We're almost ready to leave. Bebe's just finishing up a few things."

Kyle cocked a brow. "What do you mean,  _things_?"

Kenny opened his mouth, but thought better of it. "She'll explain. For the record, I think it's a good idea."

He glanced at Stan cryptically, then his eyes darted away. Stan found himself doing the same, staring at the bare wall. The reddish-brown stain was stark against the cement floor, it kept drawing his eye. The thick smell of blood permeated the room.

"There's ten backpacks," said Cartman, "and only seven of us. Oh wait, six, because Tweak's in a goddamn coma. So, five, really, since I'm assuming Stan's gonna be hauling Sleeping Beauty the whole way."

"I can carry a backpack," Stan snapped back. But even as he said the words, he regretted them. Tweak couldn't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, but that was still a lot of weight.

"I can double up too."

"Ike," Cartman snorted. "You're like, the shrimpiest dude here. No offence."

Ike's frown was set, determined. "I want to help. I want to be useful."

"Dude, you'll be walking on your own two feet. That makes you second most-useless, at worst."

Ike bowed his head angrily. "I can still help."

Kyle clapped Ike's shoulder. "Of course you can. But I don't want you hurting yourself. You'll start with one, and we'll go from there."

The words seemed to pacify Ike, and he shut his mouth.

Everyone was just strapping up, guns clacking and boots laced tight when Bebe entered like something possessed. Yellow curls cast dark shadows over her eyes, and her arms trembled. A large red container dangled from her fingertips, mysterious liquid sloshing inside.

"You all might want to get out soon."

Kyle stepped forward. "Bebe, what did you do."

"Relax," she said dully, "We'll be long gone by the time anything catches. It'll be pretty, though."

"Is-is that the gasoline? From the cellar?"

"Yep."

Kyle went scarlet. "That was for  _emergencies_!"

"Yeah, it was."

"Bebe, goddammit, gasoline doesn't just fucking spring out of the ground! We saved that for ten years!"

"Yeah, well, it's gone now." As an afterthought, Bebe shook the nearly empty container. "Almost. It will be, in about five minutes."

"Bebe. What are you doing?"

"Giving Red the memorial she deserves." Her words struck like lightning, sucking Stan's breathe away.

Realization lit Kyle's eyes. "You're going to set this place on fire."

"Hey, look at Sherlock go."

Kenny cleared his throat warily. "It'll attract zombies, keep them distracted and throw them off our trail."

"Yeah," Butters whispered almost reverently. "I love that idea."

Stan did too. There was something that felt so irrevocably  _right_  about it. He could see the flames licking up the sunset, warm and beautiful.  _Just like her._

Everyone helped to carry the bulging backpacks outside, even Kyle, who teetered precariously as though he was walking a tight rope, struggling to balance the weight on his empty side. Ike dogged around him, arms ready, but Kyle always caught himself at the last possible moment. Cartman grabbed two packs in each fist, hauling them with a self-satisfied smirk as he passed the wobbly redhead. Stan was constantly surprised at how much brute strength Cartman possessed, he was like a stout, broad-backed gorilla. Butters strapped on the largest, a versatile navy thing with three buckles the size of his torso, surely meant for marathon hikers. Stan worried if he could even walk with it, but Butters managed.

When he and Kenny reached for the same backpack, it was all the horrible cheesiness of the bad high school romance flicks Shelley subjected Stan to when it was her turn to choose the Saturday night movie, but a hundred times uglier. Kenny jerked back like a wet cat, snatching the next pair of straps and turning before Stan could even open his mouth. Heat flushed his face as he watched Kenny saunter out, useless words filling his head.  _I'm sorry._

But for what? Not saving Tweak's life, that was certain. He shifted the blond to his other arm, letting Tweak dangle over his shoulder like a captured damsel, and reached for the backpack. With every passing second Tweak's heart pounded stronger, his breathing grew steadier. A rosiness tinted his stark cheekbones. His skin still glittered with embedded glass, freckling down his neck and in the deep burgundy of his sweater. Stan found it irresistibly comforting, the soft wool rubbing over his shoulders, tickling his neck.  _Must have had a baby blanket like this,_  he thought. In Kenny's absence he found himself pressing his cheek into the sweater, seeking warmth against Tweak's flat shoulder blade. Bits of glass nicked him, baby scratches. Stan nuzzled deeper.

"Um, Stan?"

Stan snapped ruler-straight, that old 90's 'caught in the act' trope seizing him. Kyle stood in the doorway, hand on hip, ruffled flannel shirt and dark jeans tucked into brown, functional boots. Peering at him reproachfully. His right sleeve dangled emptily, as though off a clothes hanger.

"I was checking to see if he was still breathing," Stan said quickly. Even though the words bounced falsely in the air, Kyle flitted over them with hardly a second thought.

"Stan. We need to talk."

"…Okay?"

"Out there, in the field…" Kyle shifted uncomfortably. "…I can't have you undermining my authority like that."

"Like what?"

Kyle narrowed. "I told Ike to go inside, I gave Leo express orders to do everything in his power to keep Ike inside," he ticked each off with a finger, "and you  _still_  thought it was appropriate to ask him to say? And help?"

Stan pursed his lips.  _Not this again._ "Kyle, dude, you're still trying to baby him."

"Not this time." Kyle's contradiction was red-hot. "When you came back with from the forest, that  _look_  in Ike's eyes…I'll never forget it. I was terrified, Stan. I've never seen him act that way before. Not even when Wendy died."

Stan's jaw clenched. He willed himself to ignore  _her_  name. "He's older now thought, he knows more, so of course it's going to affect him differently. How old was he when…when she died?"

"Eight." Kyle answered without missing a beat.

"Dude, I can hardly remember anything from when I was eight."

"That's not the point."

"Then get to it."

Kyle's jaw flexed, steel-edged. "I know better than to blame you for Craig. But Ike was out there because of you, and what he saw…I'm furious. At the whole damned thing. I don't blame you, that's what I tell myself."

The room chilled.

"But you do," Stan dared. "Kyle, you know I never meant for any of this to happen. You  _know_  that."

"I do." But his eyes told a different story.

"So, what?" The fight trickled out of Stan. "You want me to leave?"

"No." Kyle grew pained. "No, shit. I don't. That's why I didn't want to bring it up, but…I had to. You have to understand that."

Stan looked away.  _I guess._

"But for Ike's sake…leave him alone."

Anger roiled in Stan, poker hot. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," said Kyle. "You keep pushing Ike, getting him to face situations he's not ready to face yet. I know you  _think_  you're helping, like you're toughening him up or something. But you. Don't. Know. Him."

Each word was a jab, pushing Stan until he was stumbling at the edge of the cliff.

"Who says I don't?"

"You've known him for three days, Stan."

"You've know him your entire life and you have no idea what he's capable of. He could be  _great_. He  _is_  great."

"I know." Kyle's voice was dangerously controlled. "He's my brother."

A hot wave rose in Stan. "Then act like it! Put some damn faith in him. He's not gonna be twelve forever."

"That's just it." Kyle spoke with such certainty, no doubt he would've clapped his hands with exclamation if he were able to. "He's  _twelve_. But you demand these things of him that…I should have known were too much."

"Not if things had gone right," Stan shook his head adamantly. "If the raid went according to plan, he would've learnt something. He might've killed his first zombie. Tell me you wouldn't have been proud."

"I would've been." It was almost a roar, but not quite. "But that's not the point. You're pushing him too far. You need to back off."

"No, I don't."

"That's not really for you to decide,  _Marsh_."

Kyle flung Stan's last name at him like a piece of rotting trash. Reminding him  _who's in charge here_. It made Stan want to hurl.

"Yeah, I guess it's not.  _Broflovski_." He paused. And somehow, founding himself struggling to hold back a smirk. "I-I'm sorry, I forgot how fucking stupid your last name was."

Kyle blinked twice. For a moment the harshness flickered off, like a broken light switch. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to throw Stan off. Reminded him that Kyle wasn't some inhuman robot. He was a brother.  _I was too, once._

"Anyways," Stan tried to remember his original point, the zeal snuffed out somewhat. Somewhere in the back of his head, a sweet voice echoed  _you'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar._  "I'm not going to 'leave Ike alone', whatever that means. He needs people right now, I'm not gonna just shut him out all of a sudden."

"I'm not asking you to shut him out." Kyle seemed to be catching on to Stan's mellow, his speech less saturated with emotion. "I want you to stop pushing him."

"He needs to grow up."

"Not this way." Kyle shook his head. "I'm-I'm asking you, Stan. Please stop trying to parent my little brother for me."

Stan was shocked. "You think I'm  _parenting him_?"

"Yes, Stan. Look," Kyle sighed wearily, like he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I know it's coming from a good place. But you're trying to get too involved too quickly. I'm not telling you to ignore him or shut him out. Just…stop encouraging him."

"Dude, he needs encouragement now more than ever." In his arms, Tweak flinched and mumbled incoherently. Stan willed himself to lower his voice. "Yeah, maybe I haven't known Ike all that long. But I  _get_  that kid. He's going through everything I went through, and I know how to help him through it 'cause I goddamn survived it."

"He's not you, Stan."

It was like a ceramic plate shattered over Stan's head with a deafening crack. He cleared his throat, unable to readily find his voice. "I-I know that. What the fuck, Kyle?"

Features crinkling in regret, Kyle's lips pressed into a thin line. "We have to get going. Your arms aren't getting tired?"

"What? No. Kyle, you can't just-"

"Please, Stan. Can we do this later?"

" _Do this late_ \- you fucking started it!"

"Stan." The word was low, but rumbled like an earthquake. "I'm tired. I'm sad. God…I'm just trying to do what's right."

His voice quivered, like a tremulous note played on a violin. Stan watched Kyle, guarded, as the boy stared for a full moment at absolutely nothing, blue melancholy painted over him. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, Kyle snapped back into place like a high-strung elastic band. "So, I trust we can continue this later."

It wasn't a question, but Stan deigned to answer him anyways. "Fine. But I'm not gonna stop talking to Ike. Just so you know."

"I figured. I don't know why I brought it up. It's not an appropriate time."

"No it is not."

"So we'll talk later."

"Yeah, fine."

Kyle regarded Stan with a peculiar look. "Your ability to just accept things is…unsettling. Refreshing. I'm grateful."

Kyle's formalities made Stan prickle. "I know you're trying to sound smart, but really, you just sound like a massive douche."

Laughing wearily, Kyle combed his fingers through thick, unruly orange curls. "Just you wait. I'll get much worse."

 


	27. Chapter 27

"Hey freaks." Cartman scowled as he slammed the door open. "If you're done making out, Kenny thinks we should get going."

"Yes, of course."

For Cartman, Kyle was all smoke and mirrors. The uncertainty and vulnerability vanished in a puff, and a stern all-knowingness appeared in their place.  _For my next trick I'll turn into a jackass._ Stan watched Kyle transform, all very subtle changes, but powerful. He threw his shoulders back a touch, his legs planted firmly. But most startling of all was the fierce alertness in his eyes, crisp and laser focused. Like Kyle was straining to see something in the dark, something very small and exceedingly important.

Cartman was a stark contrast, wider, shorter (by a hair, he still had a good few inches on Stan), an unkept air of laziness about him. He chewed at a stiff stick of something, lumpy and light brown. Stan frowned.

"I thought we were low on food?"

"We are," said Cartman as he took another crunchy bite. "I try to share with you guys, but no one ever wants to. You're all hooked on Ike's onions."

"Cartman," said Kyle. "No one wants to eat raw ginger root. It's vile."

"Ginger?" Stan wrinkled his nose. "I thought that was a name."

"Uh, it is a name? Of a plant?"

Stan scowled. Now Cartman was deliberately being a jerk.

"No, I mean like a girl's name."

Cartman guffawed. "Who the fuck would name their kid after a root? That's bullshit, you're bullshitting me."

"It's a non-issue, drop it." The voice of reason, Kyle garnered both Stan and Cartman's attention. "You're right, Cartman. We have to go."

Oh, right. They were leaving. Stan looked around the shelter, suddenly aware that this would be the last time he would ever see the inside of these walls. Not that it mattered much to him. But for the rest of them, this was their home, their constant sanctuary from the biting world. Now it was bleak, barren. A crypt. Cartman lumbered out, but Kyle lingered. His eyes seemed to be tracing over every inch, every miniscule detail.

"Kyle?"

 _Snap_. With a jostle, Kyle was back.

"Yeah, sorry. Let's go."

Outside, everything was saturated a bleak grey. Kenny, Ike, and Butters were grouped further back, backpacks and satchels hanging off them like bulky scarves. The ridiculously large pack was still strapped to Butters' back, and the blond hardly seemed phased. Stan was mildly impressed. Each boy shared the same solemn frown, as though they were at a funeral. Stan supposed, in a way, they were. He pictured Red's body neatly wrapped inside, tucked beside the wall in the corner. Waiting for the flames to eat her up.

Bebe was right outside the door, already poised with a match. She looked at Kyle. "I'm going do it now."

"Okay Bebe."

With that, Bebe struck the match. The flame flared up, then settled and flickered. As Bebe let it fall from her fingers, it trailed like a comet and blue flames rose as the gasoline began to burn. The fire grew, licking the gasoline splattered walls and crackling hotly. Even from a distance, Stan felt the blast of heat as the shelter erupted into flames. Kenny had to dart to Bebe and yank her back, she was so fixated by the dancing colour.

Stan wanted to stay and watch the mounting fire too, but Kyle had already turned his back.

"We have to get going. That's going to attract every zombie within a mile. We don't want to be here when they show up."

So, slowly, everyone trickled after the towering redhead, as scrawny as he was tall, orange hair bobbing like a beacon ahead. There was a foreboding bite in the air, dry and windy. Leaves scattered the ground in great numbers, crunching beneath Stan's feet, carried by the sheer force of the autumn wind from the diminishing forest. They were headed away from the forest, away from South Park and towards the open prairie wilderness.

The survivors walked at a steady pace, the weight of their old lives strapped to their backs, dangling off straps clenched in their fists. Tweak had not stirred, and Stan began to worry if the boy was brain damaged. His eyelids fluttered, a sure sign of restless eyes darting about in sleep, mumbling nonsensically from time to time. Stan caught a few words, 'sorry' came up quite often. So did 'go', 'run', a varied slurry that Stan sounded out to his best guess as 'going to eat me'. But there was one Tweak repeated over and over with fresh conviction.

"…Cra..ig…cr…craig…"

Uttered so low only Stan could hear it. He was glad Ike walked with his brother at the front, out of earshot. Though it stirred within him murky feelings. Bebe stalked along the outskirts of the group, keeping just close enough that Kyle didn't bark at her. Slim knife slipping in and out of her nimble fingers, she kept to her own. Cartman rounded up the back, having the good sense to leave Bebe to her own. Whether that was his usual spot or he was just the slowest, Stan couldn't decide. He didn't speak either, presumably preoccupied on keeping pace with everyone else, huffing like a marathon runner.

But what gnawed at Stan was Kenny. Not on his own, loping gracefully like some rare, golden deer. No, instead he chose to walk side by side with Butters. The pair was just ahead of Stan, exchanging the occasional hushed word. Stan stared at the backs of their heads, bleached wheat and tawny gold. Butters was shorter, coming up to Kenny's eyebrows, but both were taller than Stan. That didn't bother him so much. Being short and wiry always came in handy when he needed to scale a tree or cram himself in some hiding spot. So much so, it almost seemed more than convenient. Stan had an inkling that his less than ideal childhood had wilted his puberty, using what precious nutrients there was to prevent his stomach from cannibalizing itself. His bones and muscles simply couldn't be spared the luxury of height.

Kenny threw an arm around Butters, casually, like he was swatting a butterfly. Gesturing with it as he talked, animatedly. That meant nothing, right? Kenny was a touchy-feely guy. Plus, Stan recalled dimly that Kenny wasn't too fond of Butters, for whatever reason. This was just the aftermath, his way of coping with the loss of his home, Red, Craig.

_And even if it wasn't, why would I care? Kenny's acting like a dick anyways._

_He should apologize_

_I'm keeping his secret_

_His stupid secret_

_And now he's ignoring me_

_Asshole_

An ugliness churned in Stan, rising in his throat. No matter what he told himself, he ached for Kenny's arm across his shoulders. For cheeky inside jokes and easy laughter, that mischievous smirk flashing before each punchline. He wanted back in, but Kenny's doors were shut.

 _When we stop, I'll apologize._ Just thinking it set Stan a touch more at ease.  _I'll explain myself, and we'll talk it out._

Rolling prairies disappeared behind them as they journeyed onward. There wasn't a speck of green, just dried up weeds and choking dust. Nothing to look at except for the sprawling sky, even the sun was hidden behind stretches of sullen clouds.  _The world is flat_ , Stan mused as he observed the thin line where the earth met the greying sky. He couldn't remember if that was true or not.  _The world is flat._ Someone had said that, long ago. Maps were flat, Stan remembered, with borders and differently coloured countries. But he also recalled a different, spherical map that spun. It was never fixed properly on its stand, though, always tilting slightly to the right. That had annoyed him.

The words crawled into his throat.  _Hey Ike, is the world flat? Or is it round?_ But they dissolved in the dust that seemed to float in Stan's lungs, sucked in with every breath. His throat constantly itched, drying up in the autumn air. He swallowed, saliva sticky from lack of water. Legs growing stiff, arms burning from Tweak's slight body. Pain pinching the front of his brain, pulsating, promising to grow. How long had they been walking? There was no sun; it was impossible to tell the change in time. Though it did seem cooler. Digging deep, Stan willed himself to keep going. This was nothing, a walk in the park.

_There was a time_

_Fourteen or fifteen years old_

_Stan was running_

_Running_

_Whistling stinging wind in his ear_

_Legs pumping battery acid_

_From some sprawling cityscape to rocky cliffs and jagged trails_

_From sunrise_

_To midday_

_The heat forced him to a crawl, trembling_

_Knees hit rock and that day's meal vomited down his front. Slumping over, letting his head rest on the scorching rocks. Eyelids closed, sleeping until the milky moon rose in the sky._

The longest Stan had ever ran, full-blown sprint, in his life. The experience was seared in him, more vivid than most of his childhood memories. Luckily for him, zombies didn't fare well over rocky terrain.

There were no zombies in sight. It seemed the further Kyle led them from South Park, the bigger and emptier the world became. There was something deeply satisfying about travelling to Stan. He couldn't stay in one spot for too long, he'd get jittery and claustrophobic. There was a sense that if he didn't keep perpetually moving, he'd just stop. And if you stopped, you were dead. So even though his feet were heavy as lead dragging beneath him, and his arms cramped in their position, he felt good. Shut off his brain and let his legs do all the work.

So it was a rather abrupt jolt to reality when Kyle stopped them in the middle of nowhere.

"We're breaking for a while," he said looking considerably flushed. "Everyone, eat something. And drink water too, I think Kenny, you have the water bottles, right? Good." Kyle sniffed loudly, shaking ever so slightly as he leaned his hand on Ike.

There was a collective relief when everybody dropped their packs. Cartman plopped down right away and yanked off his shoes, rubbing his feet. Stan wrinkled his nose when he saw the ugly blister stains through sweat-drenched socks.

Carefully he seated himself, letting Tweak flop onto the dead grass beside him. Every muscle in his body sang relief as he stretched out, getting comfortable. Stuck two fingers beneath Tweak's jawline, making sure he still had a pulse.  _Good._ The boy seemed perfectly healthy, aside from the fact that he was unconscious. His skin was cool, but not too cold, face tinged pink, small mumblings trickling from his mouth, a bit of spittle dribbling out. If Stan had the energy, he would reach over and wipe it away.

Kenny joined Bebe, leaving Butters looking slightly lost. The two didn't really talk, sharing a can of white beans that Bebe pried open with her knife. There was a subtle solidarity between them Stan noticed. They handed the can back and forth directly, taking a polite amount. As the contents of the can dwindled, each sloppy handful became smaller and smaller until Kenny and Bebe were popping single beans in their mouths. Stan's stomach rumbled. He rolled his head to the other side when Kenny started trying to place a bean between Bebe's lips and her stony demeanor broke into a smirk, curls bouncing as she dogged.

"Hey, um, Stan?"

The small voice had Stan up in a heartbeat. "Yeah, hey Ike. What's up?"

Ike's eyes fluttered downward. "I was just wondering if you were hungry." He stuck his hand out, clutching a tin of something. "It's lentils. Lentils have a shelf life of eight to ten years."

"Wow Ike, that's great. Did you read that somewhere?"

Ike nodded, encouraged. "The food safety guide from the elementary school cafeteria."

Stan arched a brow with interest. "Sweet, dude. It's cool you read so much. Keeps you sharp."

"Wheat and dry corn can last for twelve years. Most beans are good for ten. Guess how long honey can last."

"How long?" Stan grinned.

"Forever. It never goes bad," said Ike, sounded rather proud. "Same with alcohol and salt. That's why salt is so good for preserving things. Here, hold on a sec." Ike scrambled through his backpack until he produced a handful of brown, stiff sticks. "It's salted deer meat."

Stan took it. "Ike, did you make this?"

"Uh, yeah. It might not be good though…I didn't have all the proper equipment. But it's safe to eat."

Stan tore off a thick chunk with his teeth. The salt made his tongue curl, begging for water, but the chewy meat tasted delicious. It was exactly what Stan's tired muscles craved, and his empty stomach ached for more. It was all Stan could do not to wolf it down.

"Ike, this is amazing."

"Thanks."

"Really, dude. I could eat a ton of these things."

"Thank you, Stan." Ike's ears went red.

Before he could say anything else, Stan noticed Kyle watching them. The redhead didn't appear to be angry, but he did seem concerned. Stan glanced away. He didn't want to provoke Kyle, not when Ike came to him on his own accord.

But Ike's ears pricked, and he looked over his shoulder. Kyle looked down abruptly, but the damage was done. The moment turned sour, and Ike crawled back into his shell.

"He…he doesn't like it when I hang out with you."

Stan was surprised. "Did he say that to you?"

"Well, no…but I can tell. He always asks me what we talk about."

"What do you tell him?"

"Just stuff, like, the usual, I guess. Survival and all that." Ike sighed. "I tell him you don't treat me like a kid. I tell him I really  _really_  like that, but he can't take a hint."

Stan snorted. "He sure can't."

"Yeah. I…" Ike faltered. "…I'm really worried about him. He's super stressed out. And he can't fight anymore, now that his arm is…"

"Don't worry about that," Stan reassured him. "I'll watch out for him. Anything that wants to chomp down on him will have to go through me first." Something in the back of Stan's mind pinged at the words.  _Don't go making promises you can't keep, Marsh._ He shook it off.

"Okay."

It was tough to say, but Stan figured Ike was appeased. He offered Stan another stick of leathery jerky and fled back to Kyle. Stan let himself fall into the stiff grass. He wasn't sure how long Kyle intended to let them rest, but he was going to milk every second of it. His muscles ached with knots and cramps, even his spine felt crooked against the flat earth. He let his mind go blank as his eyes rolled back into blackness. Tweak's breath rose and fell beside him, a soft whistle. He willed himself to forget about Kenny, about Kyle. It was already growing far too complicated, these strange ties. Promising himself he would sort it out later, Stan slowly slipped into sleep, cherishing the seconds of peace while they lasted.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Stan snapped back to reality when he felt the gentle poke at his chest. For one blinding white second, instinct took over and his fist shot out. A jolt shuddered through his entire arm when it crunched into something hard.

_SMACK_

"Ow-OW!"

Stan shook himself from the sleepy haze, rubbing his eyes to see Butters reeling backward and clutching his nose. Immediately he sprung up.

"Butters!"

"I was just waking you up!" Butters touched his nose gingerly, hissing in pain. " _Jeez Louise_ , Stan, you pack a punch!  _Ow!"_

"Sorry, I'm sorry dude," said Stan, approaching Butters and hoping he didn't hit the kid too hard. "It's instinct, y'know?"

"Okay, okay. Am I bleeding?"

"No-wait…yeah, yes. Sorry."

"Ah geez, heck." Tenderly, Butters felt the tip of his nose. Once a small perky button in the center of his face, it was now crooked with a slight bump running over the bridge. Black-red blood dripped languidly over his pale lips, catching on his fingers. "It really stings."

"Yeah, shit, sorry."

Stan glanced around in a rush of embarrassment. Only Kyle and Cartman seemed to be paying attention, the latter looking on with wry amusement. But for Kyle's part, he didn't appear to be upset. Maybe a little concerned, but more for Butters' sake than Stan's adverse reflexes.

The sky was much darker now, purple and orange stained from where the sun was setting. The night air was distinctly cooler, the fine hairs on Stan's arm and neck standing on end. He squinted over the horizon.

"Are we moving on then?"

"Yeah." Wincing, Butters dabbed delicately at his bleeding nose with the end of his shirt. "Kyle wants to find shelter before the sun sets. And I do too, I mean, it's really creepy out here." He shuddered. "It's so open and…and big."

"The world is big," Stan agreed absently, scouring the horizon for threatening figures.

"I don't like it so much. Before, I always kinda wished I could see the world. But I can't stop thinking about going back home."

"You guys weren't waiting for me, were you?"

Butters' mouth twisted. "Well…everyone was real tired. And…" he dropped his voice, "…just between you 'n' me, I think Kyle was more tired than he let on. But don't tell him I said anything!" Butters glanced over at Kyle warily. "I don't want him thinking that I think he's, y'know…a sissy."

Stan almost laughed. It was absurd how preoccupied Butters was with pleasing others, smoothing over the smallest slights with a harried rabbit-like neurosis. Especially when there were so many _real_  things to worry about. Like food. And shelter. Kyle might be an intimidating figure, but the sort of threat he imposed loomed vaguely, like a far-off storm cloud.

"Dude, it's okay." Stan stretched out his back, bones popping and cracking satisfyingly. Butters winced. "Seriously, there are bigger things to worry about."

"Well, I-I guess." said Butters doubtfully.

Though his body was rested and rejuvenated, Stan was already exhausted talking to the flighty blond. He wanted to get walking again, his legs threatening cramps if they didn't get moving soon.

"Speaking of bigger things," said Butters suddenly, "Tweak's awake."

Stan snapped to attention. "He is?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Where is he?"

"With Bebe." Butters pointed to two figures sitting off a short distance. Stan recognized Bebe's wild hair, but the other silhouette was so small and hunched, Stan almost missed it.

"When did he wake up?"

"Only a little while ago."

"What happened? Did he say anything? He's not violent, is he?"

"Oh, um…" Butters stalled, struggling to put it in words comfortably. "I guess…like…I don't want to be mean, but he's…slower now. Like, he kinda talks like he's drunk all the time now. But he's not hyperactive or anything, so that's good, I mean."

A low dread stirred in Stan. "What do you mean  _drunk?"_

"Like, all slurred. And it takes a while for him to answer you. I mean, at least for us. When he woke up, he just kinda stared off for a bit, then Ike noticed and asked him if he was okay. And it took him a real long time to think up a response, like, thirty seconds. He said 'yeah', but he didn't sound too sure."

"And he's calm?"

"Kinda," Butters wrinkled his bleeding nose and hissed in pain. "It's more like he's just really out of it."

Needled with stress, Stan stood up.

"Where are you going?" asked Butters, surprised.

"I want to talk to him."

"Why?"

Stan found himself overwhelmingly irritated by Butters' persisting presence. "Because, I want to make sure he's okay to travel."

"You should probably ask Kyle first."

At the mention of his name, Kyle glanced over. Stan groaned inwardly. There was no avoiding it now. "Okay, I'll do that."

Butters nodded, pacified and utterly oblivious to Stan's annoyance as the latter stalked off.

One look at him, and Stan could tell that Kyle knew exactly what was on his mind.

"So, Tweak's awake. I'm sure Leopold already told you."

Stan felt a rush of concern as he studied Kyle's face. "Yeah. Is he okay?"

Kyle's mouth went awry. "He's not going to be making any big decisions anytime soon. I've got Bebe asking him questions, seeing what he remembers."

"He lost his memory?"

"No, not quite. It's more complicated than that. He's slower all over, and highly irritable. More so than before, but he doesn't get nearly as excited. Everything he does is…watered down."

"He hit his head," Stan remembered quickly. "In the cellar, he must have bashed it against a wall when he was down there. I noticed blood in his hair, trickling down his forehead, but it didn't look that bad at the time…"

"He had glass in his throat, Stan. I'm sure that took the majority of your attention."

Stan cleared his throat. Even thinking the words made him sick. "You don't think he, like, messed up his brain…do you?"

Kyle didn't say anything.

Stan's mouth went dry, not much of a feat in the desert prairie. "Okay. Well, he's slow. If the zombies could smell him, yeah, that would be a problem. But that's not an issue."

"There are other threats, Stan."

"I know that," Stan snapped. "What exactly are you getting at?"

"I'm just saying it'll be tough, Stan."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't the right choice."

"I know, I know." Kyle took a deep breath, green eyes deep and intensely clear against his dust-ridden face. "Believe me, if there's one thing I know, it's that choices have consequences."

Stan's anger puttered out as he realized Kyle wasn't being accusatory, at all. In his aggression Stan noticed he'd jutted his jaw out ridiculously, a tendency that came with being vertically challenged, and he automatically re-adjusted. When he wasn't straining his neck upward to look Kyle right in the eye, he was meet abruptly with jutting collarbones peeking through the rumpled, open collar of Kyle's plaid shirt. Stan noticed it was missing a button, the green thread curling loosely down the fabric. He wanted to pluck it off. Throat burning, he looked down, ashamed of himself. Too late he remembered that Kyle was suffering the exact same worries, magnified to a hundred by the sheer amount of people depending on him. Not that it excused Kyle acting like a jack-ass. But maybe it shed a new perspective on it.

"Stan," Kyle's voice beckoned Stan upward. "I want to get this sorted. How do you think we should handle Tweak?"

Stan thought for a moment. "I don't think we should do anything yet. Let's just leave him be until we find some decent shelter. If he's calm and willing to take orders, that's all we need."

Kyle nodded. "That was what I was thinking. I've got Bebe talking with him now, she's smart, quick enough if he becomes violent, and physically non-threatening."

"That sounds…good. Yeah." Then Stan looked around. "Where's Ike?"

"With Kenny and Cartman." A grin flickered over Kyle. "He wanted go hunting for wild plants."

Just the thought of Ike scouring the ground intently, a flash of satisfaction as he unearthed whatever prized flower he found, warmed Stan. But he was still concerned. "Will he be safe with them?"

Kyle looked at him funny. "Of course."

"Okay, it's just, Kenny can get really fucking reckless, y'know? And personally, I wouldn't trust Cartman to lick the dust off my boots."

"I know what you think of Cartman. I'm the first to admit, he's…an asshole." Kyle grimaced in spite of himself. "But in all these years, he's not once let the group down. He can hold his own in a fight. And he's smart."

Stan snorted.

"Really," said Kyle. "He's got a good mind for strategy. I sometimes wonder if he thinks he's playing this entire group, scraping by doing the bare minimum, then proving himself when he senses we're all getting too fed up. He…he saved my life once."

Stan's eyebrows shot up. "No way. Cartman?"

"The very same." Kyle's eyes went far-away as he plunged into the invisible memory. "One night this group of hungry stragglers roamed by, asked for shelter. I was about fifteen, and…God I was so naïve back then…I let them into our shelter. Back then we all lived on the second floor of the rec center, which was just one broken down building amongst a bunch of other broken down buildings. If I hadn't led them straight to us, they probably would've just kept moving. But I did. They seemed nice, in their late twenties, early thirties. We talked, ate some food, and most of the group was feeling pretty damn good about having some adults in the place. But later, when we were about to tuck in for the night, Cartman pulled me aside. He said, and I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday- ' _I don't trust these guys, Kyle'_. Now, Cartman's made all sorts of false accusations before, you've already experienced that yourself. He puts on a show, makes a complete jackass out of himself. But this was so…quiet. And he called me Kyle. Usually it was either some variation of Jewboy or Broflovski. So I took him seriously. That night, we hid loaded guns beneath our pillows, which I realize now, was incredibly stupid. But we did it. He told me to slip a dagger up my sleeve too, that it would be much quieter. I admit, at first I had no idea what he was getting at. But he knew.

I was pretending to be asleep when I felt something, like a weird tickling sensation, at my throat. When I opened my eyes, one of the stragglers was leaning over me with this great big hunting knife pressed against my neck. I didn't think, I just gripped the blade up my sleeve and thrust –and then the straggler had a dagger in his eye. Cartman was up in a flash, gun ready. A few shots and everyone was awake. There was a bit of a struggle…Wendy wound up with a split lip, and Craig fractured his wrist…but in the end we got 'em."

As he listened, Stan felt a sickly familiarity. "They were going to kill you in your sleep and loot your stuff. That's brutal. It's also really common."

"I asked Cartman how he knew, and he shrugged and said 'it's what I'd do'." Kyle shook his head incredulously. "Can you believe that?"

Stan shrugged. He didn't feel like talking anymore.

"I know, dark stuff. Anyways," Kyle said, switching gears back to business. "You go check out Tweak, I'll get Ike and the others, and we should get going. There's got to be a damn farmhouse out here somewhere."

"Sounds good."

Stan turned his face before it could betray him. He wondered what Kyle would think of him if he could reach inside and read Stan's mind with crystal clarity. He felt absolutely repulsed by these long-dead 'stragglers', targeting children. It was despicable. Cowardly.

He also understood it completely.

There were hungers that roared louder than reason, drowning out the human in a person. Actual hunger, of course, was one. But so was the intense need to survive, a burning instinct so deeply rooted in Stan that sometimes he feared what he might do. An old, grotesque daydream popped into his mind, one where his family was all locked in the car and banging madly against the windows as zombies surrounded them, begging Stan to unlock the doors. Stan could feel the keys in his hand, small cold metal pressing into his palm. But instead of charging down, clearing a path and heroically yanking the doors open, he turned and ran. Ignored the screams, let his feet take him as far away as possible.  _Every. Single. Time._

Bebe didn't so much as glance up when he approached. Her upturned eyes were focused, lips pouted in determination as she sat cross-legged in front of the slight blond. Unsure of what to do, Stan remained standing awkwardly beside the two and observe.

Immediately Stan was struck the wrong way when he saw how still Tweak sat. He didn't tremble, didn't even shiver as Stan's shadow crossed over him. Although he faced Bebe, his eyes were unfocused and dull. There was fresh cloth wrapped around his neck, some rag someone had ripped off a shirt no doubt, spotted with faint red. The bits of glass were gone too, from Tweak's translucent skin and thick sweater. His brow was wiped clean, but Stan could still see sticky, blood-hardened clumps in his hair.

"How about Leopold?" Bebe asked in such a soft, gentle way that, with a twinge, Stan was momentarily reminded of Red. "What do you remember about a boy named Leo?"

Tweak stared dimly at her for a few seconds. "…I…dunno…" His voice was low and sluggish, so different from the high-strung nonstop traffic jam he spluttered, under his breath or screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Blonde hair, blue eyes. Looks a bit like Malibu Barbie."

Stan almost broke the spell and laughed. It was true, he realized. Maybe not so much anymore, but before his accidental nose-job, Butters' large eyes and diamond face were startlingly reminiscent of the old plastic doll, even if he looked a bit underfed.

Tweak scrunched his eyes shut. "…'m tired. Gotta headache."

"Just one more question." Bebe's blues flashed to Stan. Making the movement very slow and obvious, she gestured to Stan. "Do you know who this man is?"

Motionless, Tweak's eyes remained closed.

Bebe blew an exasperated breath, and she glanced at Stan. He could see how tired she was; her fighting spark was fizzled out. "He's been like this the entire time," she said quietly, clearly only for Stan to hear.

Stan was a bit startled. "Dude, he's right there-"

"Oh, he's not listening. Believe me." As she spoke, Bebe snapped her fingers in front of Tweak's blank face. "You really – _snap_ \- gotta – _snap_ \- get his attention." The noise drew Tweak back with a little start, his brow furrowed in dim annoyance.

"Tweak," Bebe said through closed teeth. Stan could tell she was straining not to lose her patience. "This is the last question. I promise. Pretty, pretty please, look at this man."

Slowly, begrudgingly, Tweak looked. Dark circles outlines his eyes, bleaching the brown out like dead wood. His lashes fluttered in recognition.

"Yeah…yeah…'course I know him."

Bebe did a double-take. "O-oh? Tweak, that-that's  _great_. Now, can you tell me who he is?" she asked with fresh conviction.

Tweak eased himself to a precarious stand, wobbling as though the ground was shifting beneath him. Bebe moved quickly, ready to catch him at any given moment, but Tweak steadied himself. What happened next was so unexpected that Stan scarcely registered what Tweak was doing until it was done.

Bebe's jaw dropped as, without hesitation, Tweak snaked his arms around Stan's waist, letting himself lean into Stan with an alarming amount of trust.

"Craig," he mumbled into Stan's leather jacket.


	29. Chapter 29

"Well," said Cartman, wrinkling his nose. "You've got the same hair. And you both suffer from resting bitch-face syndrome, so there's that."

They were regrouped, trekking once again over the rolling hills. For the past while Cartman had been listing off every possible similarity between Stan and Craig, trying to sort out where Tweak drew the connection.

"But Craig's a motherfucking giant. You're way scrawny, dude."

"Shut up." Under other circumstances, Stan would have simply let his resounding silence enlighten Cartman as to how much Stan really cared about what he had to say. But with Tweak clinging to his free hand like a lost two year old and Cartman's obnoxious voice ringing for the past hour, it wasn't easy to hold his tongue. Besides, he didn't want to let it sink in that for the entire time he'd been speaking, Cartman had referred to Craig in the present tense.

"Hey Cartman, let's you and me play a game," Kenny called out. "It's called  _shut the fuck up_."

Ever since Tweak had woken up, Kenny's whole attitude had changed. He was itching with aggression, baiting Cartman non-stop with stupid arguments that would undoubtedly end with someone's eye blackened if Kyle wasn't there to break things up. Still physical, but in a forceful, almost desperate way. He'd sling an arm around Bebe without warning, pull her exceedingly close, then sulk for hours after she'd shoved him away. Ruffle Ike's hair and slap him on the back. Intertwining his fingers with Butters', then interlocked arms, then nudging heads and blowing in Butters' ear. Kenny even walked in step with Kyle, insisting the scrawny leader use him as a crutch over more uneven terrain, despite Kyle's indignant protesting. Kenny gave hugs hard enough to bruise, and  _generously_ , but not once did he approach Stan. Nor did he even spare a glance at Tweak, the boy he'd voted so vehemently to be left in South Park.

_For dead._

Stan glanced at the pale boy's hand intertwined with his in a grip that must have felt like steel to Tweak, but to Stan was like holding hands with a china doll. It made absolutely no sense, but so many things were happening that Stan didn't know what to think, of any of it. Things were growing twistingly complicated, ensnaring him like thorny vines. It was exhausting even thinking about trying to keep up.

Ike had gone quiet again. It made Stan was to rip his hand from Tweak's in rage whenever he thought of it, but Kyle's orders rang in his ears.  _Play along. Humor him._ It was Craig, Stan knew. His absence shadowed over the group like a storm cloud, leaving a sliver of ignorance shining down on Tweak.

"Or maybe your noses…nah, that's not likely," Cartman though loudly. "Or, or wait, get this. You're both super tan. Stan, you're so tan you could be a Mexican."

"Mexican isn't a race, idiot," said Kyle, "It's a nationality."

"Fine, Indian, whatever. I don't care."

"Give it a rest Cartman, seriously. You're going to attract attention."

"From what?" Cartman waved his thick arms. "There's nothing out here! No fucking food, water, shelter, nothing."

"That's why we're still walking," said Kyle.

"This is fucking stupid…"

Reduced to grumbling, Cartman's words became unintelligible as they continued. Tweak hadn't absorbed a single word of it, and Stan wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Tweak seemed to be growing better, stronger. He could keep up easily with the group, or rather, with Stan. In fact, Tweak's whole well-being hindered on Stan, talking to him and being near him. Stan hated it. He felt dirty, and his stomach twisted every time Tweak gave his hand a warm squeeze. Even if he were to outright deny his identity as Craig to Tweak, he didn't know if the dulled boy would believe him.

Tweak sidled closer to Stan, grazing his shoulder. Stan glanced downward, watching his lips fiercely muttering. Tweak's eyes were dull and cow-like, until they caught Stan's gaze. Something sparked behind them, and a shy, sluggish smile spread across Tweak's face. He looked both drunk and high, and his affection was nakedly obvious.

Stan didn't know how to respond. His mouth twitched, he wanted to vomit. He wanted to seize Tweak and shake an inkling of sense him.  _I'm not Craig I'm not Craig can't you see that_

"Where're we goin'…again…" slurred Tweak.

"We're looking for a shelter," said Stan. He hated how everyone paused to listen in on his and Tweak's conversations. "We left South Park, remember?"

"…no…"

"That's okay," said Stan quickly. "We'll find a place soon."

"Kay…love you…"

"Love you too." Stan choked out the words. They clanked falsely off his tongue, and every time he said them, he was surprised Tweak didn't call his bluff.

"Tweak, are you thirsty?" Bebe asked. She walked closely, keeping a wary eye on Tweak. When he shook his head, she sighed. "Are you sure?"

"…maybe."

"Alright, have a drink." She unscrewed one of the group's precious water canteens and waited for Stan to stop walking, lifting it to Tweak's lips. No one trusted Tweak to hold the canteen himself, risking the loss of a good day's worth of water.

Bebe seemed to be throwing everything she had into concern for Tweak's wellbeing. She was still blunt as a rock and rough as sandpaper, unafraid of offending the blonde with her words and sentiments. But that was what Stan like best about it. When Bebe was invested in Tweak, she was herself. It was something to distract her, Stan figured.  _Wish she'd hold hands with Tweak instead_

"And drink it all," Bebe ordered. "Don't dribble, it's gross and a waste. You see water around here?"

Tweak shook his head slowly. "You're…Bee…?"

"Bebe," she corrected like a school teacher.

"Bebe." Tweak repeated, resting his head on Stan's shoulder. "Bebe…"

"That's great, but save it for later," said Bebe. "We'll talk when we find a place to spend the night."

With a moan of reluctance, Tweak continued after gentle prodding from Stan. "I wanna stop…"

"We can't, not yet."

"Why?"

"Because we need to find a place to spend the night." Stan repeated Bebe's exact words, hoping they'd sink in.

"Craig…"

"Y-yeah?"

"Love you."

"…You too."

Pacified, Tweak retreated into his own thoughts. Stan took a deep breath, trying to gather his wits about him. Every word he said to Tweak felt gross.

Kenny was hanging off Butters again, the latter seeming to enjoy the attention. Stan gritted his teeth. Unsolicited images sprang into his mind, Kenny holding his hand, brushing shoulders and grinning handsomely. Stan wanted to squeeze Kenny until the rage streamed out, or get into a good old-fashioned fist fight. Anything to end this Cold War standoff.

"Oh, I've got it!" Cartman snapped his fingers. "It's the personality!"

"What?" groaned Kyle.

"Well, think about it. Whenever Stan talks to Tweak, he sounds like an awkward asshole. Sound familiar?"

"Okay, you need to stop."

"I'm just saying-"

"Hey guys!" Butters burst excitedly, "A little house!"

Hope stirred in Stan's chest as he followed Butters' gaze. Sure enough, a tiny blue box speckled the grey horizon. Squinting, Stan could make out another, then another. Stacked closely like building blocks, it looked like a little village. And where there was a village…

"There's a road," exclaimed Stan, "Just over there." He pointed to the gravel road snaking through the grassy prairies, still blurry in the distance. "We can follow that to a city."

"Perfect. Good job, Stan." Kyle already sounded more at ease. "See that, Ike? It's going to be okay."

Ike hadn't spoken since Tweak woke. To Stan's dismay, he didn't speak now either.

As they drew nearer, it was apparent the village was abandoned. After sweeping through the town, Kyle sniffed and made his diagnosis.

"Must've been some sort of farming community. You see those fenced areas, they were probably for cattle. And that," he jerked his head at the big, square house on the outskirts of the village. "Probably a barn."

"Dude! There might be chickens in there." Cartman licked his lips excitedly.

Kenny glared. "Don't be fucking stupid, they're all dead or run off by now."

"Hey Kenny, don't get mad at me just 'cause you and Stan broke up."

Stan blanched. He kept his head down.

"Shut up," Kenny mumbled angrily, slinging his arm around Bebe.

But Cartman kept pushing. "Oh, I see. You've moved on. Too bad, looks like Stan moved on too. And boy, does he have a thing for blondes or what?"

Stan was too tired to play the game. His legs ached, his chest burned. His heart was sore. There was nothing Stan wanted more than to scoop Ike into his arms and give him a tight hug. But his hands were occupied.

The barn had an empty haunted air about it, especially as Bebe heaved the creaky doors open. Rotting hay littered the floor, piled up in massive bales that sagged and reeked like stale beer. Cobwebs hung from the corners, and bugs skittered from crevices at the intruding footsteps. Bebe wrinkled her nose.

"We're staying in here? Why?"

"Most barns have lofts," said Kyle. "I want us to be as high up as possible."

Butters scouted out a rickety ladder that looked anything but safe, but managed to get everyone safely up. It was very frustrating for Stan, as Tweak was incredibly reluctant to relinquish physical contact for even a moment. But in the end they made it work.

High up the air seemed older, and every breath was laced with sharp dust and hay residue that irritated the back of Stan's throat. He wormed out of his backpacks and sat down with great relief. The others followed suit, Butters' ridiculously large pack falling with an  _oomf_ against the hay. The skinny blonde stretched up and back, cracking the bones in his spine.

"Ah boy, that was a walk."

"Sure was," Kenny agreed tiredly.

"I'm so hungry," Cartman complained.

"I'm thirsty," Stan chimed in, a dusty sensation coating his tongue.

"Okay, okay. Who's got the water?" asked Kyle.

Bebe shook one of her backpacks in the air, the contents sloshing inside.

"Pass around one bottle. Just one. Yes, we've found a road, but we have no idea how far it is to the next big city. And we don't know if there's any drinkable water here."

"It's a farm town, maybe they had a well," reasoned Bebe.

"Maybe. But we need to rest." Easing himself down with Ike's help, Kyle rubbed his eyes. "It's been…a long day. I don't think there's any need for us to sleep in shifts."

Cartman took a long slurp of water. "Thank god!" He screwed the cap and tossed it to Butters, who fumbled to catch it. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight assholes." With that, he flopped into a mound of soft hay and began snoring.

For a second, no one spoke.

"I swear, some days I could fucking skin that jerk," said Bebe.

"You and me both," Kenny muttered.

"We're all tired, we all need to sleep." Kyle said firmly, the parent in him coming out. "Everyone pick a spot. We'll formulate our next step after we're properly rested."

Picking a spot, Stan nearly collapsed into the soft, rotting hay. He was confused for a split-second when Tweak lay down beside him and nuzzled close, letting an arm splay across Stan's chest _._ Stomach writhing unpleasantly, Stan remained still. He was afraid to move even an inch.  _Breathe, Marsh._

Countless breathes later, Stan's eyes burned. His brain whirred infuriatingly, refusing to shut off. Tweak's arm burned through to his skin, his whistling breath echoing like thunder in Stan's ears. The stars twinkled through the wooden slates over Stan's head, etched into Stan's retinas. Even when he squeezed his eyes shut, he could still see them. His legs ached from being so still, cramps shooting up his thighs. His butt was asleep. Unable to help it, he let out a groan.

"Can't sleep?"

Stan's heart stuttered when he heard Kenny's voice. At first he was unsure whether or not to respond. He cleared his throat, testing the waters, but Tweak slept like a rock. So he dared to be a bit louder.

"…No," Stan whispered hoarsely.

"Me either."

"Dude, be quiet."

"They're all fast asleep," Kenny dismissed. "Trust me. I'm the only light sleeper in the group."

Stan frowned. "I didn't know that. It…didn't seem that way."

"Well…I sleep better when I'm with someone. Bebe wanted to be alone, and Leo kicks in his sleep, so...I'm left high and dry."

"Kyle?"

"He's with Ike. I don't wanna mess with that."

"Dude, why are you talking to me?" The question came out harsher than Stan intended.

There was a contemplative silence.

"I guess…I don't know, dude. I miss you."

Stan didn't know if he wanted to laugh or throw up. "You've been acting like a total dick. You ignore me. You don't fucking ignore Butters, and he voted the same as I did." As he said it, Stan realized just how much it burned. "Tweak needs people right now. I'm a fucking stranger, and I'm doing more for him than you."

He waited for Kenny to say something, but there was no response. So Stan continued.

"You wanted to kill Tweak. You knew him for ten years, and you were ready to kill him."

When he did speak, Kenny was reproachful. "Yeah, okay. I also knew Red for ten years. And we were a hell of a lot closer than Tweak and I ever were."

"I know it's tough, but-"

"Fuck you. You have no fucking clue."

"Kenny, my family is dead."

Outside the wind whistled high, rustling dust motes from the hay. Stan's eyes watered.

"I loved that girl." Kenny's voice cracked. "I loved her. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, and now she's gone. I can't forgive Tweak for that."

Beside Stan, Tweak stirred. He muttered something into the crook of Stan's neck and tightened his grip before slipping back under. In sleep, he could have been a child.

"You gotta," said Stan. "That's how you let go."

"I miss her, Stan. It's like…it actually hurts in my heart."

The words rose in Stan, natural as breathing. He scarcely heard himself say them. "Yeah. It never stops hurting. You think it'll fade…it doesn't. But you get find a way to live with it." As he spoke, the image of a disfigured, discolored heart covered in thick scar tissue sprang into his mind, beating like a dying animal.

"Why did any of this happen? Why is the world such a fucking mess?"

"I don't know."

Kenny sighed. Then there was a rustling, and Stan dimly saw Kenny stand. No louder than a cat, Kenny tread over the sleeping bodies until he towered right over Stan's line of vision. He knelt down by Stan's empty side and stretched out, carefully wrapping his arm around Stan while avoiding Tweak's.

"Kenny," said Stan. "What are you doing?"

"I'm tired, I want to sleep."

Stan was about to protest, but when Kenny pressed into the crook of his neck, he felt a wetness drip down to his collarbone as long lashes fluttered, brushing his skin.

"Okay, just let me stretch first." Worming his arms out, Stan flexed from his fingers to his toes. His muscles released and a wave of relief washed over him. Even the added weight on his chest was more a comfort than anything. Tweak clung desperately, like he was afraid Stan would disappear into thin air. But Kenny's embrace was more affectionate, warmer. Already it was familiar, and it comforted him.

"There's one more thing," Kenny mumbled on the verge of sleep. "About Tweak…"

"Yeah, won't he freak out if he's like, near you when he wakes up?"

"Nah, I'm an early riser, that won't happen. No…" Kenny sighed. "This is big."

"How big."

"It's about my secret."

Stan prickled. "You mean…"

"Yeah, yeah. You saw me get bit, I went under, I came back. The same thing happened when I was thirteen."

"Right."

"But…I left something out."

"Oh?"

"When I was thirteen and I woke up with that bite still stinging, I didn't know what was happening. I thought maybe I was, y'know, undead. That maybe you kept your brain for the first bit, I don't know. But it wasn't just because of the bite that I thought that. I also…" Kenny swallowed.

"Kenny, what is it?"

"I…I was hungry."

Stan frowned. "Yeah?"

"I was hungry, and…and it smelled so good. I didn't think, I thought I was dead."

Stan suddenly felt very queer. "Kenny, what are you telling me?"

"The bodies...there was one close by, and I just…ripped into it."

Kenny's breath heated the nape of Stan's neck. He was very close.

"It was like biting into the juiciest steak of my life. The body was fresh, some loner who'd been passing through. His blood was the fucking nectar of the gods, rich and thick. And his lungs, oh my God…" Kenny trailed off, losing himself as he relived the ecstasy. "…the heart was the best part. But it was cold."

The blood curdled in Stan's veins. He could hardly find his voice. "You-you  _ate_  a person?"

"It was my first instinct, Stan. It was overwhelming. I couldn't fight it."

 _It doesn't sound like you wanted to._ The warm fuzzies were gone. Stan felt very cold.

"But then Tweak saw me," Kenny's voice changed. "He rounded the corner and there I was, gnawing on some dead guy's organs. He flipped, ran off and told the others. But he'd always been paranoid, so everyone just thought he'd finally gone one step too far. No one even entertained the notion he was telling the truth."

"Are you hungry right now?" Stan suddenly couldn't ignore the way Kenny's teeth grazed his skin when he spoke, sharp and wet.

Kenny yawned. "Dude, I'm always hungry. It's still in my system, the virus, it's not like it just goes away in seven days. It's not a cold. But don't worry," he muttered quickly, "it's not like this super addicting thing. The hunger's never been as bad as that first day. Just sorta like an itch you can't scratch. Most days I forget about it. I think it's fading, with age."

"Kenny," said Stan. "That's...that's sick."

"I know."

"That's why you wanted to leave Tweak behind."

"It was only one of the reasons I wanted him out of my life, Stan. But, yeah. He knew my secret. He still might know. I'm not sure."

Stan's head pounded. He was too tired to be hearing about these things. The information got scrambled up in his sleepy brain, playing like a distant nightmare. He pictured thirteen year old Kenny thrusting his hand into some corpse's chest, tearing through skin and spilling dark blood. It didn't seem real.

"I never kill anyone," said Kenny. "I only eat dead people. But they have to be clean, they can't be infected. The last I ate was…about two months ago. So it is fading."

Stan didn't know if he felt better or worse. The more Kenny talked about it, the realer it became.

"I'm sorry for dumping all this on you now. I know you're pissed at me. It's selfish." Kenny's lashes tickled Stan's neck as they closed. "But with everything that's happened…and you already knew half of the story…I couldn't live with it anymore…."

Inside Stan was conflicted. The surface of his brain screamed for him to shove Kenny off and run, but the deeper, slower half wrapped sleepy tendrils around him and weighed him down.

"Stan…am I a monster?"

Another deeper yawn rattled from Stan's lungs, splitting his mouth wide open. "Nah."

"How are you so calm about this? I mean, I'm glad, but still."

"I'm tired Kenny. I'll freak out tomorrow."

Kenny exhaled a soft laugh. "I'll hold you to that."

"But you should tell the group. Maybe not the second bit, but the first. The immunity bit."

"We'll see."

A retort rose in Stan's throat, but a powerful yawn overwhelmed it. The hay was soft beneath him, and the warmth from the sleeping bodies all around eased his mind into rest. Whether things were better or worse now, he didn't bother to decide. He closed his eyes.

Finally the stars were dark enough for Stan to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

Morning broke through the slates and pierced Stan's eyes. He tried to rub it away until he heard voices dimly speaking, rousing him further. The others were awake, he probably should be too.

There was a cold draft to his left, and he realized Kenny must have already woken. Tweak's arms were still tightly wound around him, the boy dead asleep. Carefully, Stan nudged him with his shoulder.

"Dude…dude, wake up."

Mumbling incoherently, Tweak shook his head with heavy reluctance. His hold loosened and Stan took his chance to wriggle free.

Dust motes milled through the pale light that filtered through the worn barn slates. There was a gentle calm in the air, and Stan took his time waking up. The others were already stretching about, eating food, yawning lazily. Compared to the winding dusty road, the hayloft was an entirely different world. Quiet and cool, strangely ethereal. Bebe snapped an elastic band around her wrist, trying to tame her wiry hair into a ponytail. Whenever it seemed like she had finally slicked the blonde curls back, a flyaway would spring up and she'd release the entire works in exasperation. Stan hadn't the slightest idea why, but it was very fixating to watch.

Kenny and Butters shared a hay bale and a can of lentils, caught up in amiable conversation. Something bitter tasted on Stan's tongue as he studied Kenny. The boy was especially good looking bathed in easy morning light. The days spent travelling under the sun had browned his skin several shades, streaking his hair honey-gold. His blue eyes were impossibly vivid when the light hit them. When he smiled roguishly, he looked like some prince turned pirate. His teeth glinted white and straight. It was difficult to imagine them red dripping.

Unlike Kenny, who bronzed in the sun, Butters' skin had achieved a brilliant pink. His lemony hair flopped tiredly over his brow as though wilted by the sun, but his eye twinkled baby blue whenever Kenny smiled at him. As Stan studied Butters, he noticed how faintly bloodshot his eyes were, and the tired circles bruising around them. Signs of a late night spent crying, Stan recognized easily. The boy must really be living through some kind of emotional disaster; it was visible in the nervous twitch in his lips, his flighty hand gestures. Butters grew more tongue tied, stumbling over words and agreeing manically with whatever tumbled out of Kenny's careless mouth.

"…it might be a while before we come across anything worthwhile. We shouldn't stay here too long."

"Yeah! We're a long way from civilization," Butters nodded eagerly.

"But on the other hand, there aren't any zombies out here."

"Oh-yeah! That's one good thing. Ain't nothing out here trying to eat us."

"That's right, Leo." Kenny glanced at Stan.

Stan grinned back uneasily. He was almost certain the conversation that had transpired between the two of them last night was real, but a tiny piece of him stubbornly clung to disbelief. In the fresh morning light Kenny was nearly an angel.  _Did I just dream up the whole thing?_

No, that was wishful thinking. Stan remembered the tingle of Kenny's teeth on his neck, his warm breath as he whispered secrets into Stan's ear. To vivid to be a dream. It seemed so faraway, the dark of night a completely different world from this clear morning.

At any rate, he was happy Butters had found someone else to latch onto. Kenny actually had the energy to keep up with Butters' emotional rants, and he reciprocated beyond the obligatory head-nodding  _mmhmming._

Butters' gaze wandered, and he caught Stan watching them. For a split-second he smiled. Stan returned it reflexively. It was small, but felt natural. Perhaps from a distance, the two of them could slowly build up a friendship, a real one, instead of the chaotic scramble for solidarity that had flung them together in the beginning.

Fingers tugged gently at Stan's jacket hem, and he realized Tweak must have woken up. Resentment swelled in Stan. He'd wanted to check on Ike while Tweak was still asleep. Awake, the needy boy demanded all of Stan's attention. Stan felt like a first-time mother caring for her newborn, selfish reluctance overwhelmed by a sense of duty to care for this boy fate had dropped on his lap.

"Craig...where are we?" Tweak blinked into the morning light.

"Uh, some barn."

"Not South Park?"

"Nope."

"…why?"

Stan paused. "Well…it got overrun by zombies. We had to evacuate. We…walked for days. Don't you remember?"

Tweak didn't respond. His eyes had gone blank again, his head drooped slightly. Completely checked out from reality, off in his own little world, the only inkling of life evident in how tightly he held Stan's hand. Stan stifled his frustration with the boy. Sure, he'd bargained for some problems Tweak might pose on the group, but nothing like this.  _It's not his fault not his fault_

"He's checked out again," said Bebe, offering Stan a stick of jerky. He took it gratefully, stomach rumbling.

Sitting next to him, Bebe tore into her own jerky. "How'd you sleep?" she asked, picking meat from between her teeth with her pinky nail.

Stan shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

Bebe arched a blonde brow. "Really? Things weren't… a little crowded?"

Stan tried to keep his face smooth to hide the panic that sparked through his chest. From the way she asked it, he had no idea whether she was hinting to his and Kenny's night chat or not. Her arching brows and red smirk always made her seem like she knew more than you wanted her to.

"Ah, well…he's a clinger. I learned that," said Stan carefully, leaving it up to Bebe to decide if he was talking about Kenny or Tweak.

"Better you than me," she shrugged, taking another enthusiastic bite. Her eyes rolled back and she moaned in delicious ecstasy. "Shit, this shit is the fucking  _best_. Thank fucking Jesus for Ike."

The name woke Stan right up. "Where is Ike? I didn't see him when I woke up."

"With Kyle. They're scavenging the town for supplies. Dunno what they're going to find…Kyle just wants to talk to Ike privately, I think. Kid hasn't been doing too well lately. It's pissing me off."

"It's Tweak." Stan dropped his voice. It was easier to hide his anger with a whisper, his voice didn't shake so much. "He brings up Craig, all the time. Every fucking thing out of his mouth is 'Craig this, Craig that'. 'Oh, I love you Craig, I'm so happy you're here Craig…'"

Bebe regarded him with furrowed brows and tight lips. The pity in her face was obvious, and it pissed Stan off.

"What? What is it?"

"You think you're tough," she said, "Everyone else does too. But whenever Ike comes up, you're an open book, with fucking pictures it's that easy to read."

Her words rattled Stan, prickling him to the offense. "Um, excuse me?"

"Kyle's the same way. Everything he does is hinged in that kid's well-being. Which is to expected, I mean, they are brothers." Bebe grew serious. "But we gotta think about the worst-case scenario."

"What are you talking about?" Stan asked, dread stirring low in him.

"Stan, you're not stupid. Ike's not in a good space right now, he's not sharp. If something happened to him, Kyle would lose his shit, and then everything would go to hell."

Stan felt sick. "What the fuck are you talking about? Nothing's going to happen to Ike."

"Look,  _buttercup_ ," Bebe snarled suddenly. "That's a pretty nice fantasy you're living in, but when you're ready to join the rest of us in the real world, let me know."

Ugly anger rose up in Stan. "What the fuck are you even talking about? Do you see any zombies out here? He's safe, fuck you."

Bebe didn't even blink at the obscenity. "We're leaving in a few hours, so that's a piss-poor argument."

"You really think Kyle would let anything happen to him?" Stan countered. "Kyle, who  _locked the kid up_  for his own protection?"

"Kyle's got one arm and a fuck-ton of stress messing up his brain. Try again."

"He's got me. I won't let anything happen to him."

Bebe gestured to Tweak. "No offense, but you're pretty preoccupied already."

Stan gritted his teeth. Kenny and Butters were stealing curious glances, and he forced his voice quiet. "Why are you even bringing this up? What the fuck is your problem?"

Bebe's face grew somber. She toyed with the remaining jerky in her hands, picking off meaty strings and flicking them into the dusty air.

"I'm just trying to minimize my losses. God, and they say girls are the emotional ones. Christ…Stan, you can't let your emotions get the better of you. Look at Tweak, he's ruled by his fucking dependence on you."

"Why do you care about him so much?" Stan asked with more spite than he intended. "Kenny hates him, everyone else avoids him, but you're just, what, fine? You're so in control of your emotions that you just don't have anymore."

Bebe slapped him with a look. "Or maybe," she began slowly, "because I'm not fucking twelve, and I actually have a fucking brain, I know that holding a grudge will get me nowhere."

Stan stiffened. He'd given Kenny that exact advice last night.

"And anyways, it's what Red would've wanted," Bebe finished, slowing solemnly. "She also would've wanted us to carry on, keep on going without her. Craig too. But at this rate…I don't know how much longer Kyle will last. He's trying to do everything on his own, overcompensating to the point where it's just fucking painful to watch."

The words clanged with horrible truth. Too easily Stan pictured Kyle's gaunt face as it grew wearier, paler. With every passing day Kyle clung to Ike with increasing desperation, depending utterly on the twelve year old boy to keep himself balanced.

"So," said Bebe, heavy with finality, "I need to know I can count on you."

"To…?" Stan asked, feigning casualty over the ugly stir deep below.

"To keep Kyle running for as long as possible. Keep his head on his shoulders. He listens to you. If Kyle's compromised, this group falls apart. And you know it."

Stan said nothing. He wouldn't disparage Kyle aloud. The last thing Kyle need was to hear whispers of his weakness among the group, especially since he was going to such lengths compensating for them already.

Lips tightening, Bebe was clearly unimpressed. She stood up briskly. "Fine. Thought I'd try. You…didn't surprise me." She stalked away. "Make sure Tweak eats something," she called behind her. "Since you don't seem to want my help…"

Stan was left alone, half-eaten stick of jerky still clenched in his fists. He tore into it angrily. Stress always fueled his hunger to monstrous proportions, awakening that old instinct to bulk up for the famine. Tweak was still vacant, swaying gently back and forth as though caught in a breeze. He didn't know if the boy could handle something as tough as the thick, leathery jerky. Searching through the bags, he found a half-opened can of beans that he pressed into Tweak's hand. It took some prodding and the extreme sum of Stan's patience. He strained not to explode when the can fumbled through Tweak's fingers and slimy black beans splattered into the moldy hay.  _Not his fault, not his fault._  Instead, he managed to cool down enough to bring the tin to Tweak's mouth, helping him tip the remaining contents down.

Kenny and Butters were still talking, joined by Bebe. They seemed more serious now, but none of them glanced over at Stan with that obnoxiously obvious, high-browed  _we've been talking about you_ glint. Stan couldn't guess what they were talking about. There was so much to be somber about.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Cartman still sprawled on a springy hay pile. Stan couldn't tell if he was asleep or not; his eyes were closed, but he was almost too still.

"Cartman" Stan coughed under his breath, barely loud enough to hear.

Cartman's nose twitched, quickly turning into what Stan would mistake for a snore if he didn't know better. The boy was eavesdropping. Another worry needling deeper into Stan. It seemd that even among familiar faces, someone was always listening. Ties were weakening, people were losing faith. Red and Craig's deaths were etching through the group like acid. It was like taking a can of fizzy pop and giving it a brutal shaking, the pressure building and straining against the metal tab. It wouldn't take much for the whole thing to erupt in one big, sticky explosion. And it would leave one hell of a mess for whoever was left around to clean it up.

The barn doors creaked and footsteps echoed up to the rafters. Everyone's head turned, and a horrible second of anticipation hung in the air.

"Just us," Kyle's voice resounded in the empty barn. "Found a pack of bullets, a pair of scissors, and two jugs of what I'm fairly certain is homemade whiskey."

"Well pass it up, I could sure go for a bender right about now," Kenny joked, making Butters bubble with laugher.

"Hardy har," said Kyle flatly. "We need it for sterilization purposes. You all, pack up and come down. We need to get moving. Ike and I swept the town clean, there's nothing else here. And we don't know how close we are to any big cities."

Everyone shoved things back into their packs, the last yawns of morning evaporating into the early afternoon. Even Cartman was up, grumbling about thirst as he watched Bebe zip three full water bottles into a pack, ignoring her spitting comments about conservation and rationing. Stan could hear Kyle pacing beneath the hayloft. The bastard voice in him whispered,  _it's because he can't climb the ladder_. Stan rejected the thought immediately. More likely he didn't want to waste the time, he wanted to get everyone moving now. Strapping a backpack to him, Stan could feel how much lighter it was. It took a frightening amount of food to feed seven people for the night.

Stan struggled to get Tweak down the ladder again. Bebe and Kenny waited below them in case Tweak did lose his grip and went plummeting. As Stan expected, Bebe didn't speak to him again, but she did seem to renew her efforts getting Tweak to recall memories, prodding him with small questions and comments. Though largely unsuccessful, it truly seemed to put her at ease.

Ike hovered near Kyle, small and serious. His arms were filled with two large old-fashioned jars with sealed caps that permeated a sharp, clinical odor, concentrating hard to hold both at once. Stan was thankful when Kenny darted forth and relieved Ike of the sloshing whiskey, but he felt a touch of jealousy as well. Tweak's desperately squeezing hand was like a prisoner's ball and chain shackled around his wrist, dragging Stan along like an unwanted balloon. He felt absolutely useless.

As Kyle began distributing supplies and individual orders, Stan caught Ike's eye. He cocked a brow - _you okay kid?_

Ike glanced down, like it was difficult for him to look at Stan. Or maybe it was the living memory of the boy whose death Ike felt guilty for clinging to Stan. The thousand-mile stare was gone from his eyes at least, replaced with a flickering uncertainty. It wasn't  _good_  by any means, but it was at least an expression one would expect from a twelve year old.

"Stan," Kyle caught Stan's attention. "Do you have everything?"

"Yeah, I think so." Not that there was much to have. His baseball bat was gone, his food was dwindling. At least he still had the old dagger in his boot, cold metal pressed against his shin and bruising his anklebone.

"And what about Tweak?"

"Uh, good, I think?" Stan nudged Tweak, who was spacing out. "Tweak, we're leaving now. Do you, uh, have everything?"

"Yeah," said Tweak, resting his head against Stan's shoulder. "Craig?"

Ike was suddenly very preoccupied with the loose thread on his shirt.

"Yeah," Stan replied with forced calm. "I'm good."

"Alright, good. You better be." Kyle surveyed the group, eyes a severe shade of green as the light hit them. "This was the pit stop. We have to keep moving until we find a new steady source of supplies. This town is dried up. I figure we can last another two weeks at the most, with what we have. The main road that runs through this town leads to a highway, which will lead us to a city. That means food." He paused. "It also means danger, as we get into the more populated areas. So stay alert, and don't be stupid."

"Easier said than done," Bebe muttered, glancing at Stan.

"Stan, you have lots of experience travelling." Kyle glossed right over Bebe's comment. "If there's something we should be doing that we aren't, let us know."

"Ah, sure," said Stan. "I never really travelled long-distance with a group before, but most of it's pretty common sense. Just stay quiet, and avoid using your guns as much as possible. Walk lightly, try to leave as small a trail as possible."

"Why?" Butters asked curiously. "I thought zombies weren't smart enough to track footprints and stuff."

"Well, zombies will follow a scent if it's fresh. But I'm talking about other people."

Butters eyes went wide.

"I know you guys have already come across a few hostile groups," Stan continued. "Well out here, you can't trust anyone, not unless they give you a damn good reason. No one survives for ten years in this world with a clean conscious, and most people with surprise you with how far they're willing to go. I've seen some serious fucked up shit, and the best way to survive it is to avoid it. And don't be afraid to split up if something dangerous happens," he added. "We can always regroup afterwards."

To his surprise, everyone was listening with earnest. Every set of eyes was on him, and when he finished, Kyle gave him an approving nod.

"Good advice Stan."

They trekked through the small farm town, passing rotting wood houses and other debris until they reached the main road. It was a strip of cracked, grey cement that cut through the only street, one way leading further into the open prairie, the other towards a fog of distant mountains.

Kyle bit his lips.

"We'll go this way," he said, pointing towards the hazy mountains.

Slowly, everyone followed him. Stan noticed the nervous way Bebe chewed her lips, Kenny's perturbed frown. Just a short while ago, one word out of Kyle's mouth would have everyone snapping to attention. But his authority was draining, growing pale. Stan wasn't sure if Kyle had premeditated the decision, or if it was a random flip-of-the-coin choice. Either way, the fate of the group was set. And they were clearly apprehensive.

As Stan gazed into the open road, he could feel the blood pumping through his veins. He couldn't possibly guess what was out there waiting for him.  _What could possibly be more fucked up than what I've already gone through with these guys?_

A lot, Stan knew unfortunately.


	31. Chapter 31

" _Are you going to Scarborough fair?"_

For the past while, the only sound Stan had listened to was Butter's clear, high singing. His voice chimed like bells, rising and dipping with the melancholic tune. It was a soothing song, but some of the notes danced eerily in the air where Butters let them hang. It cheered the journey somewhat, and quickened the group's pace like a rower's drum. Stan concentrated on the lyrics, trying to figure them out. Quickly he found he wasn't good at lyrical interpretation, most of the words flying over him uselessly. For the life of him, Stan especially couldn't figure out why Butters kept singing about cooking herbs.

" _Tell her to make me a cambric shirt_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme_

_Without no seams nor needle work"_

Subdued, Tweak loped beside Stan. If it weren't for their intertwined hands, Stan could almost ignore the boy he was so quiet. It was no different than ignoring the ache stitching into his leg muscles and up his sides, or the blisters swelling under his feet. If he flexed his toe he could poke through the sole of his boot. Perhaps they'd stumble across some well-dressed corpses later down the highway, Stan thought wistfully.

The winding highway cut straight through the sloping prairie, curving occasionally around dried up reservoirs and the occasional broken farmhouse. The pavement was surprisingly easy to walk on compared to bushy grass or loose forest dirt, or even the gravel road that had led them to the highway. It'd been a very long time since Stan had travelled with proper civilization beneath his feet. Normally he tried to avoid man-make structures with the idea of avoiding the men (and women) that so often hung around them. Now, Stan was one of them.

Hints of bigger city life began littering the road, the debris grew and soon Stan was passing broken cars and semis, crashed and piled up across the road. There were no road signs to tell them how far the city was, or even which city they were headed too.

" _Tell her to reap it with a sickle of-"_

Butters faltered when he saw the first body, bloated and ripe with a sickly sweet stench that seemed to permeate everything. Then another, and another, and soon the entire highway was dotted with stiff bodies in varying stages of decomposition. Some were still buckled upright in their cars, others who had tried to escape were sprawled in the street. Stan counted ten, then fifty; after reaching seventy eight he gave up.

Someone retched behind him, and Stan heard Kyle gasp.

"Ike!"

He turned to see runny vomit down Ike's front, the small boy bent over and coughing. Kyle patted his brother's back, encouraging him. "Just get it out of your system, bud."

The smell of death was everywhere, almost bringing Stan to gag. Even Cartman looked ready to puke, turning a sickly green. Stan couldn't help but notice that out of everyone, only Kenny remained unperturbed. If anything he was mildly freaked out by the exaggerated reactions of the others.

"Dude," he whispered to Stan. "How bad does it smell?"

Stan pulled his shirt collar over his nose. "Really fucking bad, dude. Why? What…what do you smell?"

"Uh, taco meat."

Stan's stomach lurched. He pictured a crusty taco shell stuffed with hamburgerized human flesh, writhing with maggots and oozing thick fluids. "Seriously?"

Kenny grinned stiffly, eyes darting to catch any eavesdroppers. "Shh. Yeah. You remember…?"

 _How could I forget?_ Stan nodded weakly.

More retching, and Stan saw Butters run away to vomit on the side of the road. He supposed that, despite experiencing their own brand of death, the group hadn't been exposed to so many corpses in such a short period of time. Certainly not if they confined themselves to the outskirts of South Park, avoiding the town-sized population of bodies that piled up over the years.

"Um, Kyle…" Cartman's voice was uncharacteristically high. "There's like, a lot of dead bodies here."

"I know," said Kyle. "It means we're going in the right direction."

"Yeah, but does it? Does it really? I don't know about you, but I'd think that following this-this trail of death is a bad idea."

"It means the area was highly populated."

"Yeah, but is that  _really_  a good thing? Really, Kyle?"

"What are you implying?" Kyle asked in a stiff voice.

"Well…" Cartman's words were long and drawn out, soaking with sarcasm, "It seems to me that, uh, maybe we aren't necessarily going the  _best_  way, like, for our  _group_. Maybe we need to _rethink_  our  _plan_ , and maybe _not_  follow the path that seems to be leading us to certain _doom_."

The words stung Kyle, riling him enough to make him bite back. "If you don't like the way we do things,  _Eric_ , then you can  _leave_."

Cartman grinned smugly, as though this what exactly what he'd wanted to hear. "Yeah, that'd be, like, exactly what I'd do, but…See, but it's not just me who's thinking this, Kyle."

An immediate hatred burned in Stan for the fat boy. He  _had_  been eavesdropping, it was obvious now. But to play that card now, while everyone was hungry, tired, and surrounded by rotting death, was so despicably manipulative it made Stan's lip curl. He could see the shock in Kyle's eyes, transforming into anxiety as he absorbed Cartman's implications.

Kyle stopped walking.

"Who else?"

No one spoke.

"Who else has a problem with me?" Kyle demanded angrily enough to upset Ike.

Desperately wishing to be anywhere else, Bebe half-heartedly raised her hand. Stan was surprised to see Kenny waiver his hand back and forth, a  _maybe, kinda, sorta_  gesture. Stan kept his own arm glued to his side, even when Bebe flashed him a knowing glance. He refused to betray Kyle on these grounds by blindsiding him completely.

"Fine." Kyle snapped, sounding more like a jilted lover than the self-assured leader Stan knew him to be. "Let's talk about this. I'm curious. What is it exactly, that I'm doing wrong, that you somehow feel you could be doing better?"

The pause was horrible. Stan watched Bebe thinking, clearly struggling to decide what she would do.

"Kyle, we should keep going," she began, but Kyle cut her off with an angry sweeping gesture.

"Oh, we should, should we? Is that what you think is best, Bebe? Why don't  _you_  just play leader for a little while, see how  _you_  like it?"

"Kyle, you're being ridiculous-"

" _Ridiculous?_ You've been-been scheming behind my back and I'm being ridiculous?"

"No, not scheming, Christ!" Bebe's curls shook fervently as she tried to make Kyle understand. "We've been talking, that's it. No one's planning a fucking coup. Calm down."

"They'll explain later," Stan cut in before Kyle could bite back. "I know, I know. But this isn't the time. We have to find shelter, before it gets dark. We can sort all this bullshit out later, when we're safe." Christ, it was difficult managing this group of the road. Number one rule of travel- keep going. Arguments, however important they seemed at the time, did nothing but piddle away precious daylight.

To Stan's delight, Butters leapt to his aide. "Stan's right, you guys. If we can't count on each other, we've got nothing. I know that if we stick together, we can get through anything. But we gotta be able to trust each other." he exclaimed. Stan admired the innocence of his notion.

There was a steely glint in Kyle's eye as he swallowed his pride and gave a curt nod. "Fine. Later." But it was all too visible how shaken the confrontation had left Kyle. His spidery hand clasp Ike's shoulder roughly, the sharp bulge of his Adam's apple bobbing as he stifled unspoken words. Minute and diminished next to him, Ike seemed to shrink into his brother, closing the space between then and clinging to the tail of Kyle's shirt with skinny fingers nervously, like he was trying to hold him back.

The mere act of looking at Ike exhausted Stan, the boy was so worn. His inky hair was tangled and wind-whipped about his head, the unintentional caricature of a punk-rock guitarist. Skin pale and thin as a petal, dark shadows bruising under his eyes and hollowing his cheeks, the look of starvation. But there was still food wasn't there? Gripped with a sudden intense concern, Stan jogged up to the pair of brothers, dragging Tweak alongside with him like a mute conjoined twin.

"Ike, did you get anything to eat back in the farmhouse? Before we left?"

Lips pressed stubbornly in a thin line, Ike shrugged.

Ten times wearier for it, Kyle frowned and leaned to mutter in Stan's ear. "His appetite's down the tubes. He says he's not hungry, like that's possible. I had to force half a rabbit leg down him yesterday."

Of course it wasn't the immediate concern, but Stan couldn't help the deep-rooted instinct that pricked its ears like a hungry dog at the words. "You had  _rabbit_?"

"We caught it yesterday, ate it in the farm town. Don't tell anyone. It's all he'll eat."

"I can hear, you know," Ike said petulantly. Stan was surprised the boy so readily responded.

"Then you answer me," demanded Kyle, "why aren't you eating anything?"

"I'm not hungry."

"That's bullshit. You have to eat, Ike. You never had this problem before."

Ike shrugged passively. "I dunno."

"That's not good enough," Kyle snapped, harsh enough that Ike winced. "First we get run out of South Park, now everyone's got a fucking problem with me. I don't need this, Ike.  _I-can't-handle-it_."

Ike went silent, and Stan's chest grew hot.

"Kyle," he said. "Dude."

"Don't you ' _dude'_  me, Stan."

"Kyle," Stan repeated firmly. "You're not angry at Ike. Ike, he's not angry at you."

Neither brother spoke, which Stan tried to think was a good thing. At least a good stretch of silence would allow for Kyle to calm down and Ike to gather his thoughts.

Or it would, if the ominous threat of death did not hang over the stale air like mist.

Butters jumped a good foot in the air when the creaky squeal of a rusted car door pierced the air. Immediately Stan drew his blade, holding the plain black leather easily in his hand, palm up like a gangster. He hushed the others.

"Most of these bodies are old, but there still might be…" A distance screech of metal on metal echoed further ahead, ringing like a horror effect. Everyone remained frozen stiff until the noise was well faded.

"Keep on your guard," Stan ordered. No one objected. Despite a stony pout, Ike kept close to Kyle.

There was a large arching overpass that preceded the first specks of buildings, slowly growing into colossal skyscrapers and chic apartments, the glass walls cracked and sparkling like spider webs during a rain. A sharp metallic fume overtook the air, the smell of thousands of cars cooking in the sun, paint peeling and oil reserves dripping languidly from deteriorated exhaust pipes. The dead littered the streets, countless as plastic bags. Stan took care to step around them, not wanting to trip over a stray limb and fall on to someone's bloated corpse. These were all old, spoiled and wrinkled like rotten fruit, flies buzzing about and crawling in and out of fleshy crevices. Stan pulled an old red bandanna from his back pocket and tied it over his nose and mouth to stifle the scent. He lent his spare blue scarf to Ike, relieved when Ike took it without hesitation.

Butters' fluttery voice took to the air for a fleeting second before Stan hissed " _Shut up."_

"Wh- oh, sorry, sorry."

"There might still be zombies. We have to be careful, and quiet."

"S-sorry, yeah, sorry. It's just, it helps me calm down, and I just-"

Kenny gave Butters a playful thump on the shoulder. "We get it, dude. But seriously,  _shhh_."

"Right, right." Reassured that the group did not immediately despise him despite his miserable folkway, Butters doggedly picked up his pace.

Stan noticed most of the bodies were well-dressed, especially the women. Hard jewels and silver chains glittered around throats and wrists, nylonned feet fitted into sleek stilettoes. Everything that didn't rot reeked of luxury. Bloody gold watches, broken pearl necklaces. Kenny was gaping all around him, stooping to snatch up various treasures and stuff them into his threadbare pockets. Butters was startled.

"Kenny, wh-what are you doing?"

"I'm getting rich, that's what I'm doing."

"You-you shouldn't loot the dead," Butters stammered, obviously forgetting where the clothes on his own back were from.

"Why not? It's not like  _they're_  going to use it," said Kenny, nodding at the dead woman whose emerald choker he fastened around his wrist.

"Stupid people," Bebe commented as they walked. "Tried to take as much expensive shit with them as possible. A load of good it's doing them now." She glared at Kenny pointedly. "All of that is worthless now, you do realize."

Kenny shrugged, unapologetic, picking the dried blood off his new prize and flecking it into the wind. "My parents were broke and sold meth for a living. I never saw shit like this in my life when people  _did_  give a damn about it." Then, he added in a lower tone, "Karen would've flipped over this."

The name tickled Stan's memory. "Karen?"

"My sister."

"Oh." Stan was sorry he asked, but Kenny didn't seem too perturbed. His wounds were old. Already beginning to heal over.

"Keep up," Kyle ordered. The instinct to lead slipped out of him unnoticed, and he grimaced realizing it. "I mean, if you want to. You can, of course, do whatever the fuck you like."

Despite his previous boasting even Cartman kept in line with the others, head bowed in shame or resentment. No one spoke against Kyle, but Bebe dared to roll her eyes. "Boys," she muttered to no one in particular.

Stan suspected it was the foreign surroundings, vast crumbling giants towering over them with great shadows. It made him feel small but also stirred a deep loneliness. This was the past, and now it was lost. He was amongst ancient ruins.

Then the winds changed, and guttural moans echoed from deep within the city wreckage.

He and Kenny stiffened at the same time. So the city was inhabited. Stan was hardly surprised, a city of this size stood no chance against the infection. Judging from the decay of the bodies, everyone in this city had been dead for a good five years. Stan wasn't sure if a zombie could survive for that long. Once infected, the zombie's body was preserved while the brain was attacked and consumed by the virus, hardwiring in the taste for human flesh. Technically the human was still alive, but all parts of the brain pertaining to humanity were destroyed beyond repair. Aggression and hunger became dominant, and the virus recognized humans as its favorite prey. At least according to an old university professor Stan had stumbled upon when he was seventeen.

"Zombies," Stan whispered. Butters whimpered behind him.

"Kyle, what do we do?" demanded Bebe.

"How should I know."

" _Kyle."_

Kyle's jaw clenched, his narrow chin jutting. "Keep going, stay quiet. Stan, keep a hold on Tweak. Look for higher ground, somewhere zombies can't get up to. If you see supplies, don't pick it up, remember where it is. We'll come back for it."

Too easily, everyone fell into line like soldiers. Bebe flicked her dainty silver switchblade out, Cartman pulled a wrench from his back pocket. Butters drew a handgun, but after Stan reminded him of the number one rule,  _be quiet_ , he abashedly and found a hunting knife instead. Stan took the gun for himself, holding it with extreme care in his right hand. His left was occupied with Tweak. Stan was mildly concerned over how an emergency might play out if Tweak remained glued to his side, but he didn't waste time thinking about the  _potential._ Worrying about the  _if's_  and  _maybe's_  was pointless, he had learnt long ago.

Keeping his finger off the trigger, Stan crept alongside the others as they drew nearer to the moans. There were other noises too, guttural snarls and growls like wild animals. Stan's heart pounded.

"They sound agitated," he dared to whisper, so quietly he could scarcely hear himself. "Something's riling them up."

Kyle thought for a moment. "We need to find higher ground. Now."

"It's all fucking skyscrapers around here," said Bebe. "I can't scale a fucking building."

"Guys, they're getting closer," said Butters. He stepped closer to Kenny, panic slowly spreading over him. "Guys."

"There," said Bebe, pointing to what had been a one-story restaurant wedged tightly between two towering business buildings, decaled with scripted writing and a fixture of an abstract slice of pizza above the door.

"There," said Kyle, gesturing to the swooping canopy of a hotel entrance.

"The restaurant is closer," insisted Bebe.

"Closer to the zombies, yes," Kyle spat back.

From not terribly far away, ugly groans rose up like a tidal wave. Stan's legs itched to bolt away. "They're catching our scent."

Lurching shadows cast over the street, growing larger. Bebe and Kyle were locked in a dead heat. Neither spoke, but lightning crackled between them.

With an ugly bellow, one zombie stumbled blindly around the corner and into the open street. Sniffing manically, it staggered in different directions hungry for a scent until, with horrible deliberation, it twisted towards the group.

" _EeeeeeEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRK_ "

The thing screeched and bolted at them.

And Stan couldn't help it.

It was a split second decision. He wrenched himself from Tweak and ran for Ike, rushing past his brother and scooping the ninety pound kid up in his arms. Footsteps scrambling over pavement, blood rushing in his ears. Kyle screaming something, Ike shrieking back, then the overwhelming stench as more of the undead poured into the street. Stan vaguely heard breathing around him, movement close behind him. Skinny arms clinging to him in pure terror.

Stan leapt and caught the edge of the hotel entrance canopy with both hands, Ike hanging off him like a koala. Kicking his legs, with a grunt he pushed himself up and flopped onto gaping canopy fabric, giving beneath him like a trampoline. But it was thin and flimsy beneath him, patches thinning and threatening to rip open at the slightest move. So, quickly, Stan climbed up the jutting brick architecture and onto the window sill of the nearest room, taking great care to avoiding the broken glass that lined the edges.

A second passed and Kenny vaulted up over the canopy. Then Butters, panting like an overweight dog. Using the heel of his boot to break the remaining glass around the window, Stan hastily made room as they clambered next to him, Butters shakily, Kenny with the swift prowess of a jungle cat.

Dust rose up as Stan landed with a thump on the rich carpet, and a musty odor lingered all about the old hotel room. There was a single massive bed layered with faded red sheets with gold embroidery in the center, adjacent to the cracked flat screen television fixed to the wall. A small armchair and coffee table sat by the wall on the opposite side next to another door, closed. No lighting, it was dark and dingy, almost haunted in its vacancy. It made Stan shiver.

"Kyle," Ike choked. "Where's Kyle?"

With a sickly feeling, Stan realized that Kyle would not have been able to hoist himself onto the hotel canopy with only one arm. That was precisely the reason Stan had been so swift to snatch up Ike. He knew Kyle would not be able to.

Outside the hotel window the street was filled with the undead, running, screaming, clawing uselessly at the lofty hotel walls with hungry mouths. Angry cries filled the air, ugly inhumane noises. Stan couldn't count the zombies, they were so numerous. It was like trying to discern grains of sand on the vast ocean shore. They poured from every orifice of the city streets like ants.

Amidst them Stan recognized the flyaway hair bouncing in the wind, bleached in the sun. Wandering worriedly, Tweak was pushed and steered by the hundreds of undead bodies milling about, leaving rubs of blood and other dark stains on his sweater and skin. Stan could not see the boy's face from a distance, but he could see that he was pressing his palm over his mouth in that familiar way. He squinted, trying to see if the boy was okay. Praying he would be.  _You left him in the street to die._

But the sight across the street sang sweet joy like a church choir. Atop the restaurant were three figures, one fat, one short, and one who was missing an arm. Three familiar blurs, the blonde one waving her arms high over her head. Stan waved wildly back at her. "Hey, hey!"

"Oh my god…" Kenny was beside Stan, mouth parted in awe. "They fucking made it up. How the fuck did Kyle…oh my god…"

"Bebe or Cartman must've…I don't know, but they did it." Words could not describe the relief Stan felt knowing that Kyle was alive.

As good as he felt, Ike must have been a thousand times greater. His thin arms whipped wildly about as he tried to flag Kyle's attention, a laugh of pure glee bubbling forth when Kyle waved his one arm back in a slow rainbow, lighting Ike like Stan hadn't seen since Craig was alive.

"He made it, Kyle made it!"

"Oh my god," Kenny repeated. "Look at them. There must be a thousand. Two thousand. How the fuck did we survive that?"

Stan shook his head, breathless. "I've been asking myself that question since I was ten, dude. You never learn the answer."

 


	32. Chapter 32

Day had passed to night and Tweak was still in the infested streets, singled out like one golden wheat stalk amidst a dead grey field. Stan could not tear his eyes from the boy, who appeared a blur from the hotel window.

There was nothing Stan could think to do. Leaping headstrong into the city streets would be certain suicide, but sitting here, twiddling his thumbs by the hotel room window, was equally fruitless. The sense of helplessness was overwhelming.

And Kyle was trapped all the way across the street, even though he was still alive. Even if he did have a plan, Stan wouldn't be able to hear it over the hungry zombie's cries. If Stan squinted carefully, he could just make out Kyle's silhouette, fading fast in the twilight, pacing frantically from one edge of the restaurant to the next. Bebe looking down into the street, and Cartman sitting on the edge with his feet dangling precariously as zombies jumped and clawed at him from below, kicking them up just in time. It was a game he seemed to enjoy.

The others were growing restless too. Butters paced from the bathroom door to the window, peering through it like he expected a miracle in those five seconds, then doggedly restart the cycle, walking so furiously he was bound to wear right through the carpet. Every time anyone asked him if he was okay, Butters replied yes, he was just worried. Stan couldn't fault him on that.

Kenny handled stress differently. He stretched himself over the bed and held a moth-eaten pillow over his face so tightly Stan wasn't sure how he could still breathe. Every so often Stan would hear a low, muffled groan of exasperation from his direction.

"Kenny," Stan called.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Passing time, what's it look like?"

"Um, honestly? Self-asphyxiation."

Butters laughed too loudly, nervous. "That's not funny, Stan."

"Ah shit. It's not? My bad."

From beneath his pillow, Kenny snickered.

"What do you think, Ike?" asked Stan. "Did I lose my sense of humour since fourth grade?"

Ike tore his eyes from the window for half a second, confused. "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"Ah, nothing."

Ike had not moved from his spot by the window sill, cemented in place for the smallest glimpse of Kyle. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaned against the empty window frame, but wouldn't sit down even when Stan offered to keep an eye out for Kyle in his place. Occasionally, his gaze would lower and he would bite his lip worriedly, and Stan knew he'd found Tweak.

"Kyle's going to think of something," Ike would announce intermittently. "He'll save us. I know it. He's really smart, my brother. Always has a plan."

And Stan would find himself nodding. "You're right, Ike. Kyle's very smart." But that was all he could allow himself to agree with.

Night came and roars rose. The zombies grew rowdier, something in the night air injecting them with frenzied hunger like sharks smelling blood.

Ike moved from the window sill. "It's too dark to see anything." He moved to the bed next to Kenny, curling his knees to his chest, tightening when the moans rose high. "Kenny, he's going to be okay, right?"

Kenny grinned toothily. "'Course, champ. You know your brother." He drew Ike in next to him, wriggling around pulling the blankets from underneath him, draping them over Ike. "It's late. You need to get some sleep."

Feebly, Ike pushed the covers down. "I have to make sure Kyle's okay."

"Well, Stan's gonna keep watch 'til you wake up again. Me 'n' Leo too."

Butters' head popped up at the mention of his name. "Yeah, of course Ike!" he agreed enthusiastically. "We'll wake you up right away if anything happens-"

"But  _nothing_  is going to happen," Kenny cut in pointedly.

"Er, yeah," Butters stumbled to correct his mistake as Ike's eyes grew wide. "I meant, like, if we think up a plan, or Kyle and the others find their way over here. We're all safe up here. Zombies don't do heights so well."

"It's not the same."

"Yeah it is," Kenny brushed over easily. "You got two eyes, Stan's got two eyes. What's the difference?"

For a moment Ike glanced warily at Stan. He dropped his voice, but Stan could still make out the words. "Stan has really bad eyesight."

Stan laughed. "What?"

Startled, Ike looked over with incredibly guilt. "Well, like. It's just, I don't know. You squint a lot."

"I squint?"

"Yeah, and you always wait until zombies are really close before you kill them."

Stan frowned. "It's just easier that way."

"Yeah, because your vision is terrible."

It was so affronting, this news. All his life Stan had never even  _suspected_ he couldn't see well. He even took pride in his sight, the keenness of it responsible for his survival all these years, spotting huddles of zombies from far off, smelling hints of decay, hearing their subtle shuffles and-

_Oh, wait. Those are my other senses._

"Stan, how many fingers am I holding up?" asked Kenny, grinning with feigned obliviousness as he raised his fingers.

"Seven. How many've I got?" Stan raised his middle finger.

"That's harsh, Marsh."

Stan snorted.

"But like, Stan," said Ike seriously, crawling out of the bed and running to the far end of the room. He picked up the ancient paper pad and clicked the courtesy hotel pen, miraculously still full of ink. Scrawling something quick, he lifted it in front of him. "Read this."

Stan raised a brow. "Ike, I can see fine."

"Stan."

In the armchair Butters shrugged, like  _humour the kid_.

Stan swallowed uncomfortably. He looked around the room. "Guys, c'mon, this is dumb. I wouldn't have survived this long if I couldn't see fu-freaking two feet in front of me." More kindly, he turned to Ike. "I'm fine, kid."

"If you're fine, why don't you read it?" the small boy challenged stubbornly.

Even Kenny was staring at him now with bemusement. "Stan, just read the damn thing. It's not a big deal."

"I _know_ ," Stan snapped. "I know."

Kenny arched a brow. "Then do it."

Shame crawled into Stan's throat. Suddenly his eyes were heavy, drawn to the floor. This was stupid, he shouldn't be feeling this way about something so trivial, so insignificant. But as he looked around, Stan realized that Butters could read the writing, Kenny could, and Ike certainly was able to. He felt worse.

"I, uh," Stan started uncomfortably. "I can't…I can't read."

Kenny gave him a funny look. "Dude. Dude, really?"

"It wasn't really a priority. I just, like, forgot it after a while."

Even Butters had the most pitying, simpering look that it made Stan's head hot.

"What? It's not a big deal. It's not."

"Oh, Stan…" said Butters, softly.

"No, shut up. It's not a big deal. It's great that you guys can do it. It's not for me."

Ike was absolutely stunned by the news. He glanced awkwardly at the paper. "Stan, I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I mean to-"

"Ike, it's okay," said Stan more strongly, warmly. Trying to make sure this wasn't one more thing Ike would blame himself for. "Honestly, I've never even really missed it."

Ike chewed at the inside of his cheek in that way that made Stan worry. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."

"Ike," said Stan, putting a hand on Ike's shoulder. "Ike, look at me. I'm not angry. Do I look angry?"

"…No."

Stan grinned. Before he could fight it down, a small grin twitched over Ike's lips too.

Later Ike was snoozing peacefully on Kenny's chest, curled up like a moth in a cocoon. It hadn't started out that way, Ike had been on the edge of the mattress clutching a ragged pillow with an iron grip. But the boy rolled and stretched and found his way to Kenny, who wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close with a grin Stan could only describe as tender.

"He's used to sleeping with Kyle."

"Ah."

"Yeah," Butters agreed generally. "I hope the others make their way back soon. Gosh, it's near about pitch black out there."

He felt bad for it, but Stan strongly wished Butters would just go to bed too. The boy fluttered around him and Kenny like an unwanted moth, watching either of them with a hopeful nervousness, like he desperately wanted to chat but didn't want the burden of starting the conversation.

Finally, Butters worked up the nerve. "S-so, do you guys think we should just stay here 'til morning, or…?"

Stretching, Stan yawned. "No, we're ditching Ike to go crowd surfing with the undead."

"W-wha-"

"That was a joke," Kenny clarified. "I think it's pretty safe to say we're camping here for the night."

Butters glanced at the window. "There's a lot of them out there. Are we sure it's safe up here?"

"We're on the second floor, I think," said Stan. "The stairs should hold them off for a little while, plus they have to get through the front doors, the doors to the stairwell…We should be okay." Another yawn overwhelmed him, and his eyes teared up from tiredness. It really had been a long day. He wasn't used to adjusting his internal clock to the needs of others. When Stan Marsh needed sleep, he found a safe place and slept. But now he had to cycle with Butters and Kenny, so he wrestled the tiredness down. Ike looked so peaceful, curled up in Kenny's armpit, mouth drooping open.

Kenny's eyes fluttered tiredly. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. Stan fought the urge to copy the motion.

"You guys can sleep," offered Butters. "I'll keep watch for the first bit, I ain't so tired as you guys are yet."

"Leo," yawned Kenny, "You sure?"

"Oh, yes! You and Stan look tired as heck. I mean, not to be rude, but…y'all look like you could use it."

"Gee, thanks Leo."

"You're not tired?" asked Stan.

Butters shrugged. "Yeah…not really."

The bed looked so achingly comfortable, Stan couldn't help but sink into the sagging mattress and thick comforter. How long had it been since he slept on a real proper  _bed_? Too long, clearly.

With the way Ike snuggled up to Kenny, there was plenty of room for Stan, though he didn't require much. They might even be able to squeeze Butters in too, the blonde the second smallest of the bunch.

"Wake me up next," said Kenny, as an afterthought. "I'll watch after you…then Stan gets a turn, then it's morning."

Butters gave a short nod. "Yep, gotcha Ken."

Stan turned on his side and yawned again, his eyelids itching with the anticipation to close. The high moaning from outside was unnerving, but familiar to his ear, and it hardly bothered him as he slipped into sleep.

"Stan. Stan, wake up."

The intrusive voice came all too quickly, and when something soft plummeted against his face with a gentle  _whack_ , Stan bolted upright in confusion. He looked in his lap to see one of the plain hotel pillows, and across the room to see Butters watching him, seeming incredibly nervous. In his hands he clutched an identical pillow poised to throw, but loosened his arm when Stan awoke.

"Oh, good, y-you're awake. That's great."

Stan blinked fuzzily, slight irritation buzzing like sandflies. "Dude…what the fuck?"

"W-what?"

"You…chucked a…fucking pillow at me?"

"I didn't want to get punched again!"

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in old habit. "Whatever. Is it my turn? Where's Kenny?"

Then Stan looked around the room for the first time. Still deep in sleep, Ike clutched the bundled up comforter to him on the other side of the bed.

Alone.

"Well, that's kinda why I woke you," said Butters in a quick nervous rush. "I woke him up after a while and he said he'd watch and I could sleep, so I slept and then I woke up 'cause I had to pee and- and he was gone."

A sudden sickness rushed over Stan. He flung the blankets off and sprung out of bed, panic coursing through him with electricity. First instinct was dart to the window and peer out, but it was still the dead of night, too dark to make anything out.

"I already checked," said Butters from behind him, "He's not in the hallway, or in the bathroom neither. And he didn't wake us up. Why would he just…just  _leave_?" These last words were loud with frustration, and Stan could tell easily that Butters was hurt. Emotionally upset that Kenny was gone, at the idea that he had ditched them for whatever reason.

Then Stan realized the moans from outside weren't a mere background buzz anymore. They emanated from right beneath his feet, just behind the cracked drywall.

"And-and that's the other thing. I think the zombies got into the hotel. They're real loud now, louder than before."

Stan was seized by the urge to punch Butters square in his stupid, childish face.  _Straighten his nose and knock some_ _ **fucking sense**_ _in him._

Stan snatched his backpack. "We gotta go." He paused, thinking for a moment. Then he scooped Ike up, still snoozing. "Get your shit, we're going."

Gaping like a goldfish, Butters stuttered, "W-w-what? We're just- just leaving? What about Kenny?"

"Wherever Kenny went doesn't fucking matter right now," Stan muttered, "It's not safe here. You hear that?"

The groans were now echoing from right outside the hotel door.

"Really? You thi-"

Before Butters could finish the word there was a horrible thumping at the hotel door, the sound of numerous of unfeeling bodies throwing themselves at the concrete with animalistic abandon. The bare drywall suddenly seemed so flimsy, and Stan knew the door locks wouldn't last long. Cradling Ike carefully in one arm, he stepped up onto the window sill, being sure to get a firm grip of the fixture above.

"What about Ike?" exclaimed Butters, finally following suit. "Wake him up!"

Stan clenched his teeth and grunted as he pulled up the sum weight of himself and Ike Broflovski to the narrow ledge of jutting architecture etched above the line of windows. "No time- I can carry him- he might freeze- not gonna risk that."

It was clear Butters wanted to protest, but Stan was already creeping along the skinny ledge, keeping his back pressed safely against solid brick. He wasn't sure what the plan was. Looking down, Stan could see how woefully close the second story of the hotel was to the open street, and he wondered how he could have ever deluded himself into thinking that this was high enough.

_You're losing your edge, Marsh_

_This is survival_

_Smarten up or die_

_Your choice, asshole_

Clutching Ike with every drop of his strength, Stan and Butters shuffled at snail's pace along the ledge. More groaning, louder, and several alarming thuds. Stan dared to glance down and saw undead arms clawing desperately from the window Stan had escaped from, the overflow pushing zombies out and sending them sprawling back into the streets. He could hardly catch his breath, and the night air was cold. The next building over was another skyscraper, this one with smooth walls all the way up. Impossible to climb.

But Stan felt a twinge of hope when he saw the chain-linked fencing blocking off the small, vacant alley from the rest of the bustling street.

"Butters. There."

Rounding the corner, Stan had Butters jump first. It wasn't a terrible fall, but Stan wanted to gauge just how far the drop would be with Ike fastened in his arm. Slightly reluctant, Butters inched down as much as possible before letting go. There was a soft thud and breath of relief as Butters realized the fall was over. Remembering to let the ground take him, Stan stepped off the ledge.

Pain jolted up his knees and Stan hissed. In his arms, Ike stirred and blinked.

"Run," whispered Stan. "This way."

He and Butters stole down the deserted alleyway like thieves. Ike was mumbling something, awareness slowly leaking into his words.

"W-what's….going…."

"Nothing," said Stan, breathless. "Just hang tight, bud." He stopped. The alley emptied into another open street, this one wide and deserted. Stan guessed all the city inhabitants were still milling about the hotel.

"Kyle." All the sleepiness drained from Ike's voice. "Where's Kyle."

"He's safe."

"Where are we? Why are you carrying me?"

"You were asleep," said Stan unhelpfully, walking cautiously into the open street.

"And- and it's cold. Are we outside?" Ike's voice grew higher as panic set in. "And- wait- was Kenny with us?"

"Kid," said Stan, "Give me five minutes."

"I- I remember Kyle's on that roof. I was on a bed. In that hotel. You carried me."

"Ike," Stan tread into the open road, lifting his foot and fumbling for the switchblade tucked in his boot. "Five minutes. Please."

Ike closed his mouth, though Stan could tell words were waiting to tumble out. He surveyed the open street, infinitely darker with no street lights to guide the way. Only the pale glow of the milky moon, a plump crescent in the night. In the dim lighting, Stan could mistake Butters' pert features for a mannequin. Ike was almost a corpse.

It was impossible to see anything that might be a safe haven. The night blurred the city buildings together in one imposing shadowy wall, closing them in. Stan strained his eyes, pacing about in case he missed something.

Until finally, after what couldn't have been more than thirty seconds but seemed an eternity, Stan spotted the beautifully sloping helm roof, the jutting pinnacles and flying buttresses just beyond the block. The moon hung just below the vast structure, a pearly backdrop to the proud, lonely cross that stood at the very top of the church.

Stan hissed Butters' name, and the two of them ran down the street. The rowdiness of the undead drew closer too, egged on by the stark scent of fear. Stan quickened. Butters too.

The darkness seemed to engulf them as they raced for sanctuary.


	33. Chapter 33

Footsteps beat too loudly against the crumbling road. Shallow breath tickled Stan's ear as he holstered Ike on his hip, struggling to carry the ninety pound boy and simultaneously hold out his dagger. Invisible threats seemed to lurk everywhere in the dark, but the disturbingly animalistic snarls that rang in Stan's ear were all too real. The church drew nearer with every step, the adorned cross at the tip glowing against the moon like beacon. Breaking into a full blown sprint, Stan sensed with relief that Butters was quickening to match his pace.

Footsteps picked up behind them as zombies caught the fresh scent, rounding the corner in one chaotic scramble. Like a roaring tidal wave they flooded the street. Stan felt Ike's runny nose buried in his neck, cold and slimy, lashes tickling there as Ike scrunched his eyes shut. His own nose ran messily as his breathing turned violent, lungs expanding painfully and squeezing out every drop of oxygen. Blood and adrenaline whooshed through Stan's veins. Just then, he noticed the pebble wedged at the bottom of his shoe rattling about with absurd annoyance.

Then suddenly he was bolting up church steps. Butters nearly tripping flat over, but stumbled forward in the crazy momentum and kept his footing. The heavy wooden doors were ajar. Slippery as a cat, Stan sneaked through. In a flash Butters was next to him, and the two heaved and struggled to push the creaky church door firmly shut. Stan instinctively slid the large rusty latch into its lock with a click of finality.

"I-I thought-" panted Butters, sinking to the floor. "We were gonna climb the-the outside! We're trapped."

_BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM_

The thunderous knocking of hundreds of dead fists sounded in the great cathedral with tremulous power, shuddering in Stan's bones. Butters leapt away from the door like it burned him red-hot. Ike was horribly startled, squeezing Stan so tightly it almost made him cough. Squinting in the darkness, Stan tried to make out the sanctuary. He prayed there wouldn't be anything waiting for them in the dark.

"Feel around for a door," he commanded Butters, dragging his own fingers against the wall in the hopes of bumping over a doorknob.

"Right."

In his arms, Ike squirmed. "Stan, let me down. I'm awake."

Letting Ike go was the last thing Stan wanted, and his instincts gave a bitter protest. But there was also the danger of the situation to consider. Ike wouldn't be any safer in his arms in this musty church, not as long as it was a dead end. So, reluctantly, Stan let the boy down.

"Stay close," he hissed, clutching Ike's hand in his. "Don't let go of my hand. Okay?"

"Okay." Ike knew better than to argue with Stan's tone, though there was a hint of resigned acceptance.

The church was pitch black, and Stan fumbled around the inside of his elastic briefs for the tiny cigarette lighter he devotedly kept next to the jut of his hip. Luckily this one was fresh, picked up only a month or so ago, and even then Stan couldn't recall having used since. He flicked his thumb and a flame sprang to life.

Ike gasped, and Butters startled from across the room.

"You-you have a lighter?  _How?_ "

"Butters, focus."

"Oh yeah, yeah, right!"

The light brought comfort as Stan's eyes adjusted, but he knew it would draw the zombies too. Like moths to a flame, quite literally.

In the dim light he could see the church's vast, sloping ceiling, the narrow pews all still fixed in rows and facing the empty sanctuary. A memory tickled at Stan and he made for the altar.

"Butters," he called. "Follow me."

In every dimly lit memory he could recall of church, the format of the building was always the same. Strictly so, almost like the eleventh commandment.  _Altar in the center, candles to the left, confessional booths to the left, and to the right…_

When the warm flame flooded over the plainer, smaller door, Stan grinned.  _The stairwell, up to the bells._

"You found it!" exclaimed Butters, forgetting to be quiet in his excitement. In response, the groans outside thickened.

The hope that rose in Stan's chest was crushed when he jiggled the handle. It didn't budge an inch. "Fuck. No.  _No, come on. Fuck_."

"It's locked?" asked Ike, his voice high.

Stan took two steps back, then landed a kick square in the center of the solid wood. The door didn't even shudder, but pain shot up Stan's leg and he swore. It felt like he stuck his entire leg in an electrical socket. He shook his head, eyes stinging. "It's too solid. I can't kick it down."

"Give me the lighter," said Ike suddenly.

"Wh-why?"

Suddenly the lighter was gone from his hands, and Ike was scrutinizing the doorknob, brow furiously furrowed and chewing on his lip. "If any of you had a bobby pin, or a needle or something, I could pick the lock."

Butters was flabbergasted. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Doesn't matter," said Stan quickly, wanting to get to the point. He rustled through his own pockets. "Butters, look around!"

Nodding hysterically, Butters darted away. Not two seconds later, he called back, "Will a wire work?"

"Yes! That's perfect," called Ike.

"Okay-ow!"

"Butters," Stan frowned, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Very gingerly, Butters held something out with both hands. Ike held the lighter close to it, illuminating the jagged, needle-thin points wound in a circle like a wreath. "It's real sharp. It was on the Jesus statue."

Taking it, Stan gritted his teeth and began working at the twine with clenched fists. The needled ends poked and cut into the soft flesh of his palms, and Stan could feel blood dribbling down his wrist. Butters winced, but Stan ignored him. Finally, he yanked out a long, barbed piece of wire, thick as pencil lead. "Is this enough?"

Ike took it and bent the end. Carefully, he wriggled it through the tiny lock hole, passing the lighter back to Stan.

Stan passed the lighter to Butters. "You help Ike. I'll watch the door." Or at least listen for the sound of breaking wood, as the darkness swallowed everything beyond the lighter's flame.

The thundering had grown, intensifying. Stan held each boom rattle dead through to his bones. With one hand he held out the hunting knife, a wickedly sharp blade the length of his forearm. In the other he clutched a heavy handgun. His hand didn't tremble, it never did. Until he remembered that Ike was three feet behind him and starkly vulnerable.

_BOOM_

_BOOM_

_CRACK_

The ugliest, most horrid splintering sound pierced Stan's ears, and the rancid smell of death hit him like a storm along with the cold night air. He could see the deep deep blue of the night sky through the breaking door, the occasional twinkling star. Raising his gun hand, he took a steely breath. Behind him he could hear Ike working vigorously.

"Almost….almost there…"

"Ike," Butters urged, "Ike, hurry up."

"Just…a little bit…"

_Click_

Ike leapt back triumphantly. "Got it!"

Stan spun around and darted to the open door, following the flickering flame that disappeared up the stairs with Ike and Butters. Out of instinct he closed the door behind him, knowing it would only buy them a few sparse minutes. His heart thumped as he pounded up the steps. It was true, zombies didn't do stairs well. But, under certain circumstances, it was possible for a horde to shamble its way upward.

The stairwell twisted around in a spiral, and Stan was soon panting as the light led him higher and higher. He couldn't even see the flame, just a yellowish glow echoed against the stone walls. The clatter of footsteps was everywhere.

Stan rounded the corner to see Ike awash with panic in the shallow light. He and Butters were both stopped in front of another door framed in stone, smaller, older. Butters was jiggling the handle frantically.

"It's locked, it's locked, we're trapped oh my God we're trapped-"

Stepping back, Butters drew his gun and pointed it one-handed at the door with frantic desperation. Stan shoved its aim down to the floor.

"No! Shit, that'd made them rowdier! Do you want them to start running?"

Stepping back, Stan kicked his foot through the rotting wood. A little gasp escaped Butters. There was a gross, moist sound as he began ripping hunks out with his bare hands, and it felt more like sponge than wood. It also smelled damp and fungal, but Stan had never been so grateful to smell decay in his life. Beyond the stench was the familiar cool night, and Stan knew they had reached the bell tower. He tore the hole bigger while Butters clutched the lighter, shaking. Shadows danced over the narrow stone hallway, and for a moment they flickered over Ike. The boy's face was milk white, and he looked ready to vomit. Seeing him, Stan felt a fresh burst of energy. Ignoring the splinters, he gritted his teeth and tore through the door until the hole was big enough to crawl through.

"Butters," said Stan. "Don't waste a bullet on a door. The only thing I wanna see you shoot are the monsters eating people out there."

Butters gulped. "Yeah, okay."

The sky was still dark, but the air was chilly and electric. It was like stepping into a freezing shower. Butters weaseled through the door, and then Ike clambered through, short shallow breaths hiccuping out from him. Immediately Stan took Ike's arm.

"Kid. Kid, you okay?"

Ike nodded, not really looking at Stan. "Ye-yeah." He took another rattling breath. "It –it was like being in the storm shelter again."

"Kid, it's okay. We're out now."

"I want Kyle."

The words stung Stan. "I know, kid."

Ike's breaths grew shorter, harsher. "I wanna go back to South Park. I-I" Words tumbled out as Ike gained momentum. "I wish Red was alive, I wish Craig was alive, I want to go home. I want to go home."

"Uh, guys, I-I'm really sorry," Butter's trembling voice interrupted. "But I think we're in trouble."

The cramped stone hallway filled with groans and snarls, distorted and horribly engorged by the echo. Stan looked around quickly. They were at the top of the church in the arching stone bell tower, and at the very center was the big brass church bell. There was nowhere to run except down the sloping church roof. And even then, Stan was unsure how far up they were from the ground. He wound Ike's hand tightly in his own, and turned to the broken door.

"Is there anything we can use to block it?"

Butters shook his head frantically. "No, no, there's nothing up here! Just a big ol' bell!"

"Okay," Stan forced himself to take a deep breath. "Okay."

"They can't climb stairs, I've never seen them climb stairs," whispered Ike.

"Just-just a freaking, dumb, stupid-" Butters' voice grew in a way Stan had never heard before. "-loud, noisy, dumb freaking dumb stupid  _stupid bell!_  And a big jerk rope to go with it!"

It was like a beautiful slap in the face.

"The rope." Stan's brain was whirring at hummingbird speed. He darted to the belfry, leaned in as far as he could, and began snatching at the thick, bristly rope hanging the bell and trailing deep down into the dark abyss of the bell tower. "Butters, get the rope!"

For a split second, Butters was confused and slack-jawed. Then he snapped into action and strained over the belfry, the stone railing catching him at the waist. Easily his fingers brushed against the brass bell, but the rope hung just beyond his reach.

From the other end Stan fared no better. He scarcely brushed the rope with his fingertips, flexing til he felt as though his tendons would burst.  _Fuck these fucking short arms._ He strained, batting the rope, teasing it, until with one triumphant blow he snatched it up.

Stan began pulling the heavy coiling rope upwards with frantic speediness. It was a great length, having trailed all the way to the ground floor from the belfry.

"Go faster," urged Butters.

"Shut up," said Stan, concentrating.

Finally reaching the end of it, Stan flipped out one of his switchblades and sliced the rope clean off. Carefully he leapt out of the belfry and crept down the slanting church roof, reaching the shingled ledge and pausing only to make sure Butters and Ike were following him. Peering over the ledge, Stan realized just how far up the church roof was. It made sense, the ceiling of the sanctuary within had been grandiose and excessively spacious.

Stan tied the rope in a slipknot around the base of some jutting ornament that adorned the corner. He let the rope fall to the ground, grinning when he heard a soft thud below him. He grabbed Ike and hauled the boy on his back, choosing to be quick rather than gentle.

"Hold tight, we're going down."

Wrangling his way down the rope burnt Stan's palms and strained his muscles beyond pain, wringing sweat from his like a wet towel. Above him Butters grunted and gasped in effort, struggling to hold up even his own weight. Already the night had taken more than its toll, and they were nowhere near safe yet.

When Stan's feet mercifully touched the ground, he quickly assessed the surroundings. Most of the horde was on the opposite end of the church, still trying to squish through the wrecked doors, following the human scent. But he knew that wouldn't deter them for long, not with him and the others back in the open street.

Sweating and gasping for air, Butters dropped down beside him. "Now  _-pant-_ now what?"

Stan nodded toward the street. "Run."

Again they were dashing through the city streets, the night air threading through Stan's sweaty hair and stinging his eyes. Ike jostled like a sack of potatoes on his back, and every time Stan's heel hit the ground he feared his knees would collapse. Everything hurt, and his pulse high jumped in his neck. Butters sounded ready to collapse, choking on air more than breathing it. The city was a bleary blackish smear all around. The hotel was a long ways off now.

"Where are we going?" Ike asked timidly, his voice right in Stan's ear.

Stan huffed. "Any-anywhere they can't- follow us." The extreme

_Okay_

_Marsh_

_It's a horde_

_They have your scent_

_In a strange city_

_That you have no idea how to navigate_

_Your legs are going numb_

_And your lungs are on fire_

_You can't run much longer_

_So hide_

_But where_

The wind picked up.

_Where where where where_

Ghoulish voices screamed in the distance.

_There_

"Butters," called Stan hoarsely. "Over that way. Head towards the bodies."

"The dead ones?!" Butters was shocked.

"We'll lose-" Stan hitched Ike further up his back, the boy had been slipping. "-our scent."

It was clear they were closer to the inner city now, where the bulk of deaths had taken place. Corpses lay about the street, increasing as Stan ran further. He followed their trail, turning in directions where the bodies thickened. Piles of them were heaped together like firewood, charred and disfigured as though someone had tried to burn them. They were congregated in the center of the street, one massive pile that went as high as a single story building. Stan made right for it.

There was no time to be delicate about it. Letting go of Ike, Stan pulled one of the dead bodies from the pile. It was heavier than he expected, complete deadweight. With a grunt he rolled it to the side, then another, and another until there was a small niche in the rotting pile of corpses.

"Climb in."

Butters recoiled. "In there?"

"Yeah, here, I'll go first." Very gingerly, Stan weaseled his way in between the cold bodies, trying to ignore the way they squished and oozed as he pressed against them. The smell was everywhere, it crawled on his skin like spiders. Blood, shit, and sickly sweet decay. It was sure to mask any trace of life.

"Butters, here. Ike, you next."

"Uh…" Butters had never looked more reluctant to do something. "Are we sure this is the only option? I mean…" he laughed nervously, "It's just I have a really weak stomach, and how do we know the zombies won't find us anyways? I mean, those are  _bodies_."

"Butters," hissed Stan. "Get in here before they  _do_  find us, or so help me I will fucking murder you."

Butters glanced uneasily at Ike, who grimaced in return.

"Leo, just do it."

Butters relented, snuggling in tight next to Stan with a mixture of horror and utter disgust written on his face. A dead arm drooped and landed on his shoulder, and Butters' lip curled. He looked ready to cry.

Then Ike tunneled in, hesitating before Stan pulled the boy onto his crossed legs. At least this way, he could buffer Ike from the bulk of the deceased bodies.

Coughing, Ike swallowed harshly. His eyes watered up. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"Yeah, I know, the smell," said Stan. "That's why we're in here."

"So what's the plan?" asked Butters, all stuffed up like he had a cold. "We just sit here? For how long?"

"Sunrise," said Stan. "They'll lose our scent, they'll calm down. We get out and find the others."

Trembling, Butter's usually pink face was drained of colour. "They still might find us. Oh God. How do you know this'll work?"

Stan looked Butters dead in his glassy blue eyes. "I don't," he admitted.

"No, no no no…" Butters' voice grew high, and Stan realized he was sobbing. "No no no, I don't want it to end like this. I don't. I think about dying, I did, I thought about ending it all the time. But now…now that it's real, I don't want it. I don't. I want to live, Stan." Butters' eyes were brimmed red and his lip trembled. "Please, please, I want to live."

Sitting here, huddled inside a mass of bodies, everything was slowly beginning to catch up with Stan. His chest tightened, and he found himself squeezing Ike's hands with ridiculous strength to keep himself collected. Surprisingly, Ike didn't seem to mind. Ike's face was turned sitting on Stan's legs, but Stan was fairly sure he heard the boy sniffling.

"We're not going to die," he muttered, meaning it with every breath. "Not tonight."

No one answered. Stan couldn't tell if his words had any effect, and he couldn't think of anything else to say. There was nothing else to do until the sun came back.

 _At least it's warm_ , he thought.

Somewhere in the night Butters stopped crying and Ike started. There was nothing Stan could do but hug Ike close and mutter that things would be okay. Even that he had to stop, fearing he was too loud when a zombie lurched by.

It wasn't the first night Stan had spent awake in fear. But for the first time, he felt he might be sad if he didn't make it. Terrified, of course. Death was terrifying in every way, from the build up to the delivery to the final blow. There wasn't a moment in his life Stan could remember not feeling some kind of underlying fear. But now, for the first time in a long time, Stan mourned that he might die. That his journey might be cut short. There was still so much he wanted to do.

The sky went from murky black to a faded blue, and pink tinged the horizon. Stan felt frozen in place, having remained utterly still the entire night. But thankful to be alive.

There were a few close calls. The horde had followed their scent all the way to the death zone, where the bodies became numerous. All horrible low moans and shuffling feet, they lumbered past and slowly began to disperse, confused as the trail faded into the smell of death. The bloodlust died down and it was just the occasional straggler that drew near, never close enough to pose a threat.

In the beginnings of the dawn light, Stan already felt safer. It was still a good deal dark outside, but the promise of light filtered into the city streets. He nudged Ike gently.

"Hey, Ike. It's getting light out. We can move."

"Oh thank God," exclaimed Butters as he danced and wriggled out of the corpses in the most indelicate way, shuddering. "We're alive, thank God." He rubbed his hand on his face, a smear of blood staining his cheek. "Y'know, it doesn't even smell so bad anymore."

Stan shrugged. "You get used to it." He brushed himself off, flecks of blood, decay, and other mystery fluids he didn't really want to know about spattering the ground. "Ike. You okay, kid?"

The jacket Kyle had given Ike swum on him, stained with gore. Ike bit his lip and nodded. "We're gonna find Kyle now, right?"

"Yeah, but stay quiet. They might've died down, but this city's still full of zombies."

The death zone was silent compared to the rest of the city, the putrid stench warding off most of the zombies. There was the occasional rustling as one loner stumbled by, but nothing serious. All the fast zombies had dispersed already, going back to the fresher corpses at the edge of the city. The ones that roamed here were old, decayed, limbs scarcely held together by threads of sinew, discoloured bones jutting out. They wandered about like drunkards. About a block down the street there was one bent over an eviscerated body, stuffing organs greedily into it's mouth. Stan grimaced, and might have kept on walking, if something hadn't tickled him the wrong way.

A very familiar crop of yellow hair.

Stan froze.

So suddenly that Ike bumped into him. He blinked. "Stan, what's going on?"

Butters gasped.

Stan's first reaction was pure shock, so strong it rooted him to the ground. Then, overwhelming disgust as he watched the blond chew and swallow up bits of dead flesh. He wanted to puke, but then he glimpsed Ike's face. It was absolutely heartbroken.

"No…please, no…"

And a new feeling took over, one that boiled Stan's blood and made him spit dirt. The absolute pointlessness of Ike's shattered face gnawed at him to the core. It infuriated him. Enraged him, because he knew that fucking secrets ruin things, and he should never had let this one go on as long as he had.

Anger burned in his throat as he watched Kenny McCormick gnaw the rotting guts of the dead.

"Kenny…" Butters muttered in disbelief. "No, no way. He's the best. He survives everything. He didn't leave us to die."

Stan exhaled, shaking his head.

"No…" Ike was so quiet. "He can't be dead…please…not Kenny too…"

"Why does this keep happening?" Butters asked no one. "Why? God, I can't take it. We survived the night, we were gonna be okay. It was supposed to be okay. I really- fuck…"

Stan opened his mouth to speak when he heard a familiar click.

Butters had drawn his handgun. "He's-he's turned." The gun trembled violently as Butters hiccupped. "He's a zombie…he's dead…"

"No, Butters, wait," said Stan quickly. "He's not."

"I-I know that face, Stan. I know that hair. It's him. Oh God…"

"Yes, it is, but Butters, listen to me. He's not a zombie."

Butters gaped at Stan in disbelief. "What?  _What?"_ He shook his head hysterically to the point of tears.

"Listen to me," said Stan carefully, making sure Butters understood every word. "He's immune. Kenny's immune."

"That-that makes no sense!"

"It's true," said Stan, pulling Ike behind him. "And that's not everything, either."

"Stan, why are you saying these things?" Butters' face scrunched up. There was something snapped behind his baby blue eyes, the last straw. His finger twitched. "You see him? You see him!?  _KENNY'S DEAD!"_

At the mention of his name, Kenny paused and looked over. Even from the distance Stan could see the dark red splattering his clothes, soaked up his arms like gloves. His mouth was red, his eyes were clear and alert. Stan saw shock flood his face, mingled with shame as he wiped his mouth and started to stand-

**_BANG_ **


	34. Chapter 34

Stan's ears were ringing as time slowed down.

A thin line of smoke trailed upwards. Burnt gunpowder soured the air and curled Stan's tongue. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move. Only his eyes seemed to be awake.

Kenny staggered back. Red blossomed and stained his white shirt. His mouth gaped in disbelief as he brought dripped red fingers to his face. Eyes stretched wide, skin too pale. He coughed and blood bubbled over his lips.

Something wild seized Stan and he bolted towards Kenny, leaving scorch marks in the asphalt and catching the blond as he swayed forward. Stan felt the hot blood spilling out from his stomach as he caught the boy, his nose buried in golden hair. Kenny dropped like a stone into his arms and Stan staggered back, forced down to the pavement. Here he frantically smoothed away Kenny's hair from his face, searching the boy's eyes. They were distant, darting wildly about the sky as though trying to spot something that wasn't there. Still breathing, though every exhale brought another gush of blood over his mouth.

Stan's mouth went dry. "Kenny? Kenny!"

From behind him there was a gasp.

"Oh _shit_ …" Butters stammered so harshly Stan could barely make out his words. "…oh my God…"

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, and was surprised to feel tears leaking down his cheeks. His heart was racing, his mind ready to explode. Every system was overloading. Desperately he smeared away the blood dribbling down with his thumb, hating the way it made Kenny look so pale. At the touch, Kenny's eyes finally found his. His lips twitched into the shadow of a smile.

"Guess…this is what... I get…"

A sob wrenched out of Stan. He had no idea where it came from. It seized his body like a demon and squeezed his chest with razor claws.

Butters' eyes went round. "He talked. Kenny talked. Kenny- but no- that's-"

Suddenly, sense gripped Stan and he peeled the sticky t-shirt back from the gunshot wound where the blood was thickest. The metallic scent sharpened and Stan could almost taste it at the back of his throat it was so pungent. But his heart dropped when he mopped the blood away to see the bullet hole had hit just below Kenny's ribcage, slightly to the left. With every cough, bright red flecks spewed out from the wound like fireworks to match the gushing from his lips. There was a horrible sucking sound, like a deflating balloon. The bullet had torn right through the soft tissue of Kenny's lung, Stan realized. Not knowing what else to do, he pressed his own palm over the spurting wound. "Get some bandages!" he roared behind him.

Butters was petrified in shock, but Ike snapped into action. He pulled Butters' backpack off, the boy numbly letting it happen, and retrieved a roll of yellowed tensor bandaging. Darting over, Ike handed the roll to Stan and jumped back, staring down at Kenny with fright. Gore from the eviscerated corpse was still smeared around Kenny's lips, mingling with his own blood. Still, Kenny's eyes were clear and deep as the sparkling sea when they found Ike.

"…Hey…kid…" Kenny's voice was thick with blood.

Ike paled, looking almost as grey as Kenny. His thin lips trembled, struggling to form words. "You were- you-"

But Ike's words faded as there was a crescendo of groaning, and wandering zombies caught wind of the excitement. Drawn by the first gunshot, their blank eyes shone as they lumbered towards the smell of fresh blood, tongues lolling like dead fish. Stan realized too late that his frantic voice only encouraged them. Fingers stumbling stupidly over one another, he unraveled the yellowed strip and hurriedly wound it tightly over the bullet hole. "We need to get you outa here," he muttered.

Wearily, Kenny dragged his head from side to side. "No…no…run…I'll be…okay…"

"Dammit, this isn't a bite!" Stan's voice rose against his will. "You need immediate help, you need- we're gonna get you safe."

"'ve…had worse…"

The tensor bandage ran out and Stan knotted it tightly. Taking deep, deliberate breaths, he wriggled his arms between Kenny's armpits and hitched the boy up, pulling him to a stand. There was no use trying to carry him, the boy had a good five inches on him and another thirty pounds. "Walk dude, just for a little bit," he coaxed. "You can do it, c'mon dude." But Kenny swayed from blood loss, hands flung out as though the world was caught in a spinning tornado around him. Stan turned to Ike, but the inky haired boy was already fixated on something else. He followed Ike's gaze and saw Butters.

White as flour.

Oceans leaking from his eyes.

Trembling even as he lifted the loaded gun, finger twitching over the trigger. "I-I-I-" He could barely talk his lip quivered so badly. "I-I-I shot- but no- you- you weren't-" A harrowing sob escaped Butters as he stared at Kenny. Terrified beyond reason, but not at the bloody sight before him. At his own hands, wrapped with absolute resolution around the handgun. They popped with veins and white bone beneath stretched skin. "I can't-  _sob_ \- can't do anything-  _hic_ \- right. I'm- I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Stan sensed it seconds before it happened.

"Ike  _CLOSE YOUR EYES!_ " he screamed.

Butters pressed the barrel to the underside of his jaw. Squeezed his eyes close.

**_BANG_ **

_Long ago_

_Mom and Dad and Shelly_

_Thick blanket spread over spriggy grass_

_Lazy butterflies and dandelion fluff breezing through sweet air_

_Bread thickly slathered in peanut butter storebought lemonade_

_And the watermelon_

_Stan's favorite_

_Sweet sweet juicy delicious_

_Crying when_

_Shelly accidently dropped it on the pavement_

_Splat seeds red explosion thick juice spatter everywhichway_

_Cracked rind oozing pink_

All Stan could think of was that watermelon as he watched Butters' head explode. Juicy bits flying through the air with a deafening crack. The bullet must have lodged in Butters' brain, Stan didn't see it exit.

He did see Butters' baby blue eyes roll up into his head. For one moment he swayed, perfectly balance as red trickled down his forehead, before he toppled backwards. Loud thud as he hit the ground. There was a strange rushing sound. Stan's head was pounding a war dance. He couldn't blink, he couldn't tear his eyes away. Butters' eyes stared blankly into the sky, blue as the day he was born.

"No…no…" Kenny mumbled in his arms. "Fuck… _fuck_ …" Even on the verge of fainting, his voice was thick with anger. "Fucking…Leo...fuck…"

For a moment Stan was utterly absorbed by the lifeless blonde boy, until he heard Ike begin to scream.

High uncontrollable shrieking ripped from him like nothing Stan had ever seen before. He'd never seen Ike like this before, not even when Craig was killed in front of him. The boy's eyes were fixated on the fresh corpse, ready to pop from his head they bulged so much. Tried to back away, but his knees buckled beneath him and instead Ike fell hard on the concrete. Still he scrambled to get away, never taking his eyes off Butters. Horror slapped his face white as salt.

Stan made to move to him, but Kenny weighed in his arms like a sandbag. Frustration surmounted in him. If only he was a little stronger, a little taller, a little quicker, he could save them all. A little kinder, maybe, and they would not be in this situation.

"IKE!" he roared. The zombies would already be attracted by the gunshot, a little screaming wouldn't change anything. "IKE!"

Ike snapped towards him, turning a sickly shade of green. Clambering to his feet, he ran to Stan like a frightened child and vomited, splattering bile on Stan's boots. Then he buried his face in Stan's chest. One hand curled around his leather jacket, the other gripping Kenny's languid hand with desperation. Stan felt damp tears soaking through to his skin. Gasps brushing his shirt.

He wished he could freeze time, just for a moment. But the world kept turning even as Ike shattered, and the walking dead lumbered closer. In the distance there were even a few runners, rounding corners with reckless inertia. There was no room for all this emotion. That survival instinct deep down in Stan's gut snapped into action, shutting his heart down and turning to steel. But Ike shuddered against him, still paper thin. Still a kid. Just a kid.

He wouldn't comfort him. He'd save his life instead.

_Shove it_

Stan shoved Ike away harshly. He glowered into the boy's teary, confused eyes. "Ike. You listen to me. Shove that crap down." Reaching out, he grabbed Ike's arm and shook it. "You are here, and you need to focus."

_Just_

"B-but-"

"NO!  _You shove that crap down, Ike. SHOVE IT DOWN!"_

Ike blinked, tears shining on his cheeks. Then, taking a deep breath, his brows furrowed, and even as his lips were trembling he pressed them tightly shut.

His eyes were dim when he looked up at Stan, like opaque marbles.

"Okay. Okay."

Stan took a breath. Nodded sharply. "Get a gun, clear the way."

Here Ike faltered, but only for a moment. He pried the black handgun from Butters' greying hands, stiff in death. Stan could see Ike warring with himself, a scared child trembling just beneath the surface. And somehow he contained himself, even as his fingers brushed the corpse's skin. His lip twitched. But Ike didn't hesitate for even a moment. Quickly he retrieved the pistol and rejoined Stan.

Running with Kenny bumping up against his ribcage every two seconds was strenuous and painful. Stan's muscles screamed to hold the bleeding boy up, even though he could tell Kenny was struggling to move his own feet with Stan's. Honestly, he was surprised Kenny hadn't passed out yet. The blond seemed to be clinging to consciousness with sheer willpower, teetering on the edge of darkness. His eyes rolled up, exposing a ghostly white until with a little jolt, Kenny flickered back to reality. Stan was relieved. If Kenny was to pass out at this point, Stan knew that they would be forced to leave him behind.

But Ike surprised him in the best way. Lithe and sure, the tiny boy stole behind the awkward duo with his finger on the trigger, pistol aimed in a straight line towards whichever stumbling undead was nearest. Large eyes narrowed in concentration, the purpled bruises beneath aging him. A faded tear track twinkled in the sun on his starved cheeks. When one of the zombies, an ugly dawdler missing a nose and half the skin on it's face, swiped so close it brushed the tip of the pistol, Ike shot without hesitation.

**BANG**

**BANG BANG**

One by one, rotting heads popped like water balloons filled with black goo. There was a distinct period of silence between each shot as Ike aimed, taking his time with precision, but every bullet found it's mark.  _Slow and steady wins the race._

Trying to block out the deafening shots, Stan scrambled to think of a safe place. He was unsure if Kenny could handle climbing up a building. Even if he could, there weren't many options. As the street ended the group found themselves on the outskirts of the urban city. The buildings became older and sadder, crumbling brick and crooked wooden slates. Hand-made business signs hung from several, faded and chipped over time. The worn concrete ended in one abrupt line and loose gravel began. Rocks crunched beneath them as Stan dragged Kenny along. For Ike it was almost no different. The boy might as well be a ghost for all the noise he made. Stan had to crane his head and glimpse Ike from the corner of his eye if he wanted to be sure Ike was still close.

Up ahead was a chain link fence, at least eight feet high, and stretched past where Stan could see. Within were numerous warehouses with great steel doors like car garages lined up, one by one in rows. With tremendous relief Stan spotted the gate, thick chain coiled loosely to keep it from gapping open, but enough slack so that a very slim human could slip through. He made straight for it, hitching Kenny closer as he'd started to slip down. Every step seemed a battle for Kenny, his eyelids drooping sluggishly. Blood dribbled from his mouth and leaked from the bullet wound. Stan could feel it soaking him as he gripped Kenny closer, warm and wet.

Ike released a few more shots, then Stan heard the tell-tale clicking sound of an empty bullet chamber. It didn't matter. Salvation was insight, growing closer with every footstep.

With ease Ike slipped through the slim opening, ducking beneath the thick chain. He held it up for Stan, who had to wrestle Kenny through the cold metal gate. The blond was growing frighteningly limp by the second. Once they were through Ike tugged the loose chain tight and looped it in a clumsy knot.

They stole down the rows of storage sheds until they stumbled across one that was open. It was filled with old furniture and dingy antiques. There was the sharp smell of mothballs permeating from old coats. It reminded Stan of old people and cats, though he wasn't quite sure why.

Unable to help himself, he let Kenny fall on one of the couches, pink with two ragged throw pillows strewn about. Kenny coughed thickly, eyes closed. Quickly Stan worked Kenny's t-shirt up to get a better look at the bullet wound. The bandages binding it had been tied hastily and were slipping, soaked dark red. Stan cursed inwardly. The bleeding hadn't stopped yet. It bubbled over the bandages with frustrating persistence, trailing down Kenny's tanned skin and staining the cushions. When Stan turned around he saw the thick splotches of blood that marked his trail. The size of them was tremendous, Stan didn't know how a human could lose so much blood and still be alive.

He was snapped from his thoughts when the jangling of metal began in the distance, hundreds of zombies vying desperately at the gates for a chance to get inside.  _Shit._

"Ike, close the door!"

Ike nodded and ran to the entrance, jumped, and just barely managed to grab the bottom of the garage door, wrangling it like a monkey for a short moment before his weight dragged it down. Metallic groans and screeches echoed from years of misuse. Still, the broad metal would provide solid protection from the idiotic undead. What Stan hadn't anticipated was how light was shut out as it hit the ground with a  _thud,_ leaving him, Kenny, and Ike in pitch black, save for the smallest of light filtered from cracks in the roof.

They were in darkness.

Kenny's breathing shuddered right below him. It did not seem to be getting any steadier.

"Kenny," said Stan. "Kenny, dude, you're gonna be fine."

But Kenny didn't seem concerned with Stan's words. Instead, he craned his head upward with the last trembling remnants of his strength.

"…Ike…Ike…"

Ike did not answer.

"…c'mon kid…Ike…"

"Ike." The boy had been so silent that Stan started to worry if he was even in the storage locker. "Ike, you here?"

"…yeah."

"Ike," Kenny caught onto the small boy's word like a life raft. "Ike, you're…you're pissed…I know…"

"This can wait!" Stan frantically patted around him for cloth, blankets, anything he could use to further bind the wound in Kenny's torso. Nothing. He didn't remember seeing anything in the light before either. Maybe one of the pillows could work. Stan felt around until he grabbed one and pressed it gently to Kenny. "Is this stopping the bleeding? Kenny?"

"…Ike…"

"No, Kenny, answer me," Stan reiterated with a deep breath. He could feel Kenny's chest rising weakly beneath his hands. "Kenny. Kenny?"

The movement stopped.

Stan's fingers scrambled to find Kenny's, and he squeezed them desperately. "No, no man. C'mon."

Nothing. He tried again. "Kenny. Dude, I'm right here. I'm right here."

Very distinctly, Stan realized there was only one other set of lungs breathing quietly in the dark room. "Kenny, Kenny don't do this. Don't do this to me."

He found Kenny's golden hair and smoothed it away from the boy's sweat-soaked forehead. Cold.

Something wretched worked its way up Stan's throat. He shook Kenny, more roughly than he meant to, but Kenny didn't stir. Stan shook harder.

"Kenny _. Kenny_."

"He's-" Ike choked off, fumbling to catch his breath. "…he's-he's…"

" _NO!"_ Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stan was astounded at the rage that ripped out of him. He'd known Kenny for three days. Four now. He shouldn't care. But he couldn't stop shaking Kenny's limp body, couldn't get his fingers to uncurl from the unmoving shoulders. He wasn't about to lose Kenny again, not now. They'd been through so much already in such a short time. It would be like losing a limb.

A small hand touched Stan's shoulder and he jumped, but it was just Ike.

"…Stan?"

" _What?_ "

The harshness in Stan's voice made Ike go silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "Stan, what…what are we going to do?" The questions was empty, desolate, and Ike's voice shook as he asked. He sounded ten.

_Nearly twelve_

"I don't know kid."

"Leo, he-he just-"

"I know."

"And then Kenny was- he was-"

"I know."

Ike's voice sounded strange in the darkness, faded. Like he was speaking in a dream. The cold calculation that had saved his life was crumbling away, blowing into the dust, leaving the raw underbelly of his emotions exposed. "They're gone. They're g-gone."

Stan took a breath. "I know."

"I-I don't w-w-ant them to be dead, I don't, please, Stan, p-please." Ike sniffed wetly. "Please."

The desperation that trembled from Ike seized Stan, and he turned and wrapped the boy in a fierce hug. He felt Ike's wet nose at his shoulder, thin arms reaching and fingers clinging to the back of his jacket. His gasping breaths, unable to slow. Lips trying to form words into Stan's shoulder, unable to hold it together long enough.

Stan's legs lost the will to stand and he sunk to the bottom of the couch, dragging Ike down with him. He'd tried so hard. Went against everything he stood for, sacrificed the chances of his own survival for these  _strangers._ Three days he'd known them.

_Kenny_

_Butters_

_Red, Craig_

_Tweak_

_Why does it hurt so much?_ Stan wondered.  _Why can't I think? Why can't I_ stop _thinking about it? About them?_

"W-why?" Ike asked, curled up in the crook of Stan's arm. "Why did Leo…why..."

Thorns prickled Stan's throat. "I guess it was too much," he said. "He couldn't take it."

"W-what if…if Kyle…"

"He won't," Stan interrupted abruptly. He refused to entertain the notion. "He's too strong. He has you."

The two boys sat together against the couch, Kenny's unbreathing body just above them. Silent except for Ike's crying, which dwindled to soft sobs, which slowed into short, shallow breaths. Eventually it stopped completely. Ike's head drooped against Stan.

And Stan knew his mind was made up. There was no choice, nothing else he could possibly do. Survival be damned.

He was going to get Ike back to his brother if it was the last thing he did.

The air was stale and cool, but Ike was warm beside him. The tears on Stan's cheeks dried up as he listened to the muffled creaks and moans that were so far away from them. There was nothing after them, nothing on their trail. For a short moment Stan was safe. Nothing but his thoughts.

He almost preferred the zombies.

But the ugly thoughts wouldn't plague him for long, Stan realized. His adrenaline-drained heart panted like a dog, begging for rest. Slowly, Stan felt his eyelids grow heavy. Every part of his body ached. His lungs, his legs, even his eyes. Sleep rolled over Stan like a crushing wave, pulling him under it's relentless tides. He welcomed it. A little nothingness would be nice for a while.

Stan was right on the verge of blackness when he heard the sharp inhale somewhere above his head.

Not his.

Not Ike's.

Like a drowned man coming back to life.


	35. Chapter 35

Even as his heart began to race, Stan's first thought stupidly was the wind. Must be the wind. Maybe a cat. Even half asleep, he knew better. It seemed that things couldn't go right for even a second.

Then the hinges of the musty couch squeaked as something shifted its weight over them. A small moan, guttural with the pressing reluctance of someone unwillingly roused from a deep sleep, filled the silence. The crackling pop of stretching still muscles, cracking necks. Another moan, rich with satisfaction.

Stan remained still as ice. Ike rested against his chest, nuzzled into his left arm, but Stan's right arm was still free. Carefully, so slowly he was barely moving at all, Stan reached for the knife tucked in his boot.

An enormous yawn came from behind him, and the couch creaked again.

_Kenny wasn't bitten_

_This time_

_But he might still be infected_

Still, something intrusive niggled at the back of Stan's mind. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, until he heard a loud, curious sniff. Long and deep, a starving predator whose jaw dripped with saliva. Followed by a small, satisfied moan. Hardly there, but giddy with elation.

_Zombies don't do that_

And as though Stan had said the thought aloud, the noise stopped. An uncomfortable prickling spread over Stan's skin and he broke into a sweat. The eerie sensation that he was being watched grew. Stan's breath lept to his throat. The knife trembled in his hand, slippery in his palms.

"Stan?"

Stan's heart stopped.

The voice was low and gravelly, like a machine rusted from years of disuse. But there was no doubt that it was Kenny's. The boy sounded far off, like he was unsure whether he was still dreaming. There was a pause, presumably for Stan's response. But Stan couldn't find his voice. He didn't dare.

_He was dead_

_He stopped breathing_

_I saw_

But then Stan remembered another time, one where for a sickening moment, Kenny had stopped breathing. The first time he'd gotten bitten. Way back into a seeming distant past, when Stan and Kenny had been fooling around near the woods. Fighting. Stan hitting too hard, sending Kenny reeling.

The zombie sinking its teeth into Kenny.

Kenny flitting into unconsciousness.

He should have been dead

There was another long, apprehensive inhalation.

"Stan…" Kenny coughed, a thick rasp. Still hardly there. "Stan…you smell…so good…"

Two fingers tapped on Stan's shoulder, followed by an affectionate hand. It gave a hard squeeze.

"…I know you're there…Stan…"

Another sniff.

"And…and Ike, too…"

Electricity pumped through Stan's veins at the boy's name. He couldn't remain silent, play stupid any longer. There was something unsettling in Kenny's voice.

He cleared his throat. Ike stirred, but didn't wake.

"Yeah, Kenny. It's me." Just more than a whisper, Stan still had to control his voice to keep from sounding scared. He admonished himself for the feeling. After all, it was still Kenny. He even knew Stan's name.

"Buddy…" Stan could hear the smile on Kenny's face. The hand on his shoulder gave him a friendly, if not somewhat violent, shake. "I…thought you might be dead. You didn't say anything."

"We thought you were dead," Stan retorted, careful to keep his voice from rising. "You stopped breathing. We tried to save you…Kenny. You died."

"Really? I don't remember."

"You…died." Nothing was adding up, everything tumbled in a whirlwind while Stan tried to make sense of it. "You…you stopped breathing."

Kenny laughed, a pleasant, hair-raising sound. "Right, sure I did. Ah fuck, I'm so stiff." More movement as Kenny stretched, his warm hand pressing further into Stan's shoulder. "And fuck me, I'm so hungry."

"But you're alive. Kenny, you're talking to me."

"Sure am, champ. God, is there nothing to eat in here?" Kenny's voice rose.

"Are you- are you even okay? You got shot. In the stomach. Fuck."

"I'm fine, I'm just…starving, dude.." Kenny contemplated for a moment. "Hmmm…maybe…it's the fucking smell, dude. You're just…driving me crazy right now."

Dread stirred. "Me?"

"Yeah…Christ…"

Stan stifled the nervous laugh creeping up his throat. Here, in this dark enclosed storage unit, it was disturbing how close Kenny seemed. "What-what do you mean?"

"Like…man…" Kenny's voice crawled right into Stan's ear. "Keep using that deodorant, its doing wonders for you."

"Kenny," demanded Stan, his nerves surmounting. "I think you need to get outside. Now."

"God, you're right…you're right…" But Kenny didn't sound quite convinced. If anything he seemed closer, his scratchy voice reverberating right down Stan's spine. "I know, I know…it's just…I really…don't want to."

Hot breath warmed Stan's ear.

_This is wrong_

_Kenny's not himself_

_hungry_

Sharp teeth grazed the sensitive lobe.

_hungry for_

_for_

Stan was suddenly aware of Ike, sleeping all unaware against his chest like a child.

"Stan…" Barely a whisper, the word seemed to slip right into Stan's mind. "I can't…it's just... I can't…think…"

"Then think about this," said Stan, his courage rushing back in a great swell. "I have a knife in my boot. Kenny.  _Do-you-hear-me?_  I will protect myself, even from you."

"Wha…?" Kenny's voice floated high in humoured disbelief. "Nah…I ain't a threat…c'mon dude…"

Slowly, Stan bent his knee and edged his foot closer. The stiff blade of the dagger tucked in his boot pressed again his ankle, assuring him of its presence.

"Kenny, this is your last chance. Listen to me. Get the fuck out."

"Uh, Let me think about that…"

Very close now. Warm breath exhaled into Stan's neck. Something slick and wet grazed the flesh there.

Stan's heart pounded, a caged bird yearning for freedom.

_Infected_

And with a great sudden rush, all Stan's old reflexes seemed to awaken into his veins. One hand slipped into his boot to retrieve the dagger while his other hugged Ike tight, keeping the boy close to his body. He rolled forward, surely jolting Ike awake, but that was a small concern. As he ducked he whipped his knife out with a slick  _shing_. All one swift fluid movement that left Stan's head swimming as he crouched upward. But further from Kenny.

Ike mumbled, noise scrunched, eyes bleary. "Wha…what?"

"Shh, it's cool Ike," Stan lied. "Everything's just fine."

But back over by the couch, Kenny grew frantic. Cursing under his breath in a rapid, husky rattle of words.

"Dick mother fucking fuck dick- Stan- Stan I can't…you smell so good I-I just…there's something wrong with me, I fucking swear, I can't-". There was as strange sound as Kenny's words cut off, like he was tearing into a pillow with his teeth. Ripping fabric and stifled snarling filled the air.

Blinking into the darkness around him, Stan was desperate for an escape. He wasn't sure where he was in the dark storage room, but he prayed he was closer to the garage door than the couch. Would he have to lift it up himself? Or maybe the chain still worked, he'd pull on that and reel the door up.

"Stan," Ike was more alert, pressing insistently against Stan's chest with a small hand. "Stan, what's going on? Who…who else is here?"

"Not now Ike."

"Ike." Kenny's tone softened when he addressed the boy, but he was still choking out words. "Ike, listen to Stan- listen-"

"No…Kenny?"

"Ike," Stan interrupted, "How do we get the door open?"

Ike's breathe was going at hyper speed. Stan wasn't even sure if he was listening.

"Ike, the door. Ike. Ike!"

Fuck it, thought Stan. Desperate to find the metal chain, he scrambled to his feet and stretched his fingers into the unknowing darkness. Invisible land mines all over the cluttered floor, waiting to trip his feet and send him sprawling, so Stan crept with caution. He couldn't hear Kenny anymore either. Whether that was good or bad, it wasn't so clear yet.

"Kenny!" Stan shouted, "Stay on the couch, stay there or I will fucking murder you! Hear me?!"

Fingers brushed the cool metal grates of the garage door, and Stan followed alongside it until he grasped the chain, his heart racing. If this didn't work, someone was going to die.

Stan tugged down with all his might.

There was a horrendous creak as the door crawled upwards, a whiff of night air leaking into the stuffy room. The coolness Stan inhaled renewed his muscles, and he pulled harder. The door must have weighed at least a ton of solid metal, but to Stan's adrenaline-frenzied brain, it was hardly a feather. He didn't think about the lurking dangers on the other side of the door. This was far more immediate, far more deadly.

_Right now_

_I'm more scared_

_of Kenny_

_Than those things_

The door crawled open, every pull rewarding another inch of freedom. Stan tried to look behind him, but it was still too dark to see anything. No sunlight leaked into the storage locker either.  _It must be the dead of night out there,_ thought Stan. But even when he strained to listen, there was no brainless groaning from outside. At least not near bye.  _Something must have drawn them away…but what?_

Immediately Stan's train of thought crashed as two powerful hands enclosed around his wrists. He felt the heat of a body against his back, too big to be Ike.

Just as Stan began to struggle, Kenny gave his wrists a sharp squeeze. Stan hissed in pain and let go of the metal chain. With a great ugly groan, the storage door plummeted and hit the ground with a bang.

_NO_

There went the small hope of freedom, dashed in a single blow. Icy panic seeped into Stan. He began to kick his legs frantically, twisting and squirming like a terrified animal. But Kenny held tight. There was something terrible in his strength, something not entirely human. He was too immovable, a stone giant enshrouding Stan with no promise of release. An eager breathing warmed Stan's ear.

"You smell…amazing…"

"Kenny," Stan was astounded at how his voice trembled, how high it was. "Kenny, you don't want to do this."

"I know I don't," he mumbled. But his arms did not loosen.

"You can control this. You told me yourself."

"I…lied."

Despite the crux, Stan couldn't help but feel disappointment roil in his stomach. He should have known. He should have guessed Kenny was lying, even after all this time.  _If you can trust Kenny to do one thing, it's hide the truth._

 _"_ Well…well maybe not lied…" Kenny continued hesitantly. "I could…I did…but, then I died…" His voice was sandpaper, scratching at Stan's neck and raising the fine hairs. "I died and it became stronger…then we came here, and all these bodies, they made it worse….then I died  _again_ …"

"You're stronger than this." Desperation crept into Stan's words. "Kenny, please listen. You bite me and I'm infected. You're not immune. The virus is still in you. Don't-don't-" Stan choked on his own words as he realized the gravity of his plea. Something leaked down his cheek. "-don't kill me."

Kenny hesitated.

In that precious fleeting second Stan bucked forward with all his might, flipping Kenny over and crashing him into the floor. There was an angry shout and the sound of scuffling over the ground. The sheer force set Stan off balance and he fell hard on his back, pain rattling his bones. Struggling to catch his breath, Stan pushed himself up and reached for the knife tucked away in his shoe. The temptation to call out for Ike burned, but Stan held his tongue. He didn't want to remind Kenny of the boy's presence.

But just as his fingers brushed the familiar knife, something powerful knocked him over the head. Hard enough that stars twinkled in Stan's vision. He keeled forward, stomach twitching with the threat to vomit. Clutter went skittering over the cold cement ground. A ruthless hand seized the neck of his shirt and jerked upward. Stan spluttered and choked, biting his own tongue in the confusion. The taste of his own blood dripped down his throat.

"What the FUCK was THAT FOR?!" Kenny roared. He shoved Stan down, and with a horrible  _crunch_  Stan's nose crushed into the floor. "God, you really PISS ME OFF! Y'know that?"

Stan tried to choke out a response, but his brain was fuzzy.

"Don't fucking make me mad! This is your fault…you should know better!"

Breathing hard, Kenny leaned in close to Stan. "You can't kill me. No one can. You can try, but I'll just keep coming back."

Stan squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'll just keep getting worse. It gets stronger, every time I come back. It's like there's this starving beast living inside me, and it just wants to kill and eat and eat."

Kenny's breath was still thick with rotting flesh when he leaned in close to Stan's ear.

"And I can hear myself in my head, the normal part, telling myself to stop. But I can't. I don't want to-"

Kenny stiffened. With deliberation, he sniffed the air like a hunting dog.

"…Ike?"

There was no answer.

"Ike…what are you doing?"

Darkness made the silence still and heavy. It was easy for Stan to hear the distinct metallic  _click_  of a hand gun readied to fire.

"I…I have a gun aimed at you," warned Ike from somewhere in the dark. "Get away from Stan."

"Ike, you're so  _scared_. I can smell it on you."

"You have five seconds."

"I'll just come back again anyways."

"Not if I hit the brain." Ike's voice rose as he threatened Kenny. "Even if I don't hit it this time, when you die, or- or whatever you do, I'll get it."

Kenny exhaled in frustration. "Ike, listen...I'd stop if I could."

"You can stop! You haven't done anything yet! You  _are_  stopping it, right now."

"It's not that simple, I'm just-"

"One…"

"Ike, listen."

"Two…Three…"

"It's not…fuck…Ike…"

"…Four…"

"OKAY!" Kenny roared, and suddenly the pressing weight was lifted from Stan and he could breathe again. "I'm OFF!"

Stan tried to get up, but his arms trembled as he pushed himself upright. His heart galloped as oxygen swarmed back into his bloodstream with intemperate fervour, rushing his head. Another wet cough escaped his lips. Soon he felt Ike's small hands at his shoulders, gently easing him upright.

"Are you okay?"

Stan coughed again. There was a thick gob of blood at the back of his throat that he couldn't seem to get out. "Yeah, 'm  _–cough_ \- fine." But his brain reeled from the blow.

_He tried to kill me_

A loud bang erupted nearby, but it was only Kenny kicking the garage door. Each kick was met with spitting curses that Stan strained to hear.

"Here, I found some candles," whispered Ike. "I need your lighter."

Stan nodded, forgetting that Ike could scarcely see him in the dark, and handed him the precious lighter from his pocket. Even that simple task hurt.

A small flame appeared with a soft  _flick_. Then Ike's features were there, warmed by the yellow glow. He watched Stan with a guarded expression, grimacing as Stan lifted his head into the light.

"Your nose is broken." His words were soft, matter-of-fact. Eyes flickered down. Ike bit his lip. "And Kenny's alive. He's kicking the door."

Stan nodded. He didn't know what to make of any of this.

"He told me he was immune to the virus a few days ago. I guess he'd known for a while," Stan explained as Ike regarded him with an owl-like seriousness. "He didn't tell anyone. I only knew for a few days. I didn't know about this, though…not at all."

"He was  _dead_."

"I know."

Ike fell into silence, but the chaotic bangs and curses kept flying through the air. In the glowing candle light, Stan could see Kenny pacing with fire in his step. He'd give the garage door a violent kick, swear, storm to the other side of the room and start all over again. His bronze skin was soaked with a sheen of sweat, and a vein pulsated in his forehead. There was a frenzied glint in his eyes.

"I'd say we should get out right now," said Ike. "But the noise probably attracted a bunch of zombies outside. And you're too hurt to really move anyways."

Stan let the silence speak for him. It was too humiliating for him to answer  _yes._ Recalling the first time he and Kenny sparred in the woods, Stan wondered if Kenny had been holding back his real strength. The aftermath of  _this_ fight was akin to being clubbed by a bear.

"He's not going to kill us, is he?" whispered Ike.

Stan's head pounded with every bang, curses flying like gnats through the storage room. With all honesty, he slumped his shoulders and shook his head.

"I don't know," he mumbled too low for Kenny to hear.


	36. Chapter 36

Stan’s legs ached with cramps by the time Kenny’s tantrum ended.

 Neither he nor Ike dared to move the entire time, for fear of becoming the attention of Kenny’s explosive aggression. Huddled by the single candle Ike had lit, now a midget stump of wax, Stan tried to focus on the candle as it melted in thick, languid drops. He didn’t dare to speak. Not even to Ike, who was so white even his freckles were pale as Kenny stormed behind them. Ike pulled his legs close to his chest and curled into a ball. The flickering light revealed shadows in his arms, crevices of muscle and bone where flesh should be. His eyes were hollow and hungry, but strange, like a mannequin’s gaze. It was painfully clear that Ike was deteriorating, in more ways than one.

But then Kenny gave the garage door one last kick, and every inch of him trembled as he gasped for air. Ripe sweat soaked his skin, dampening his hair a rich gold. He doubled over, collapsing onto his knees and hands. Every speck of the manic energy that had possessed Kenny was burned up and out, smoking in the air like the barrel of a gun, and he collapsed to the floor, defeated.

Stan stayed still as ice. He didn’t dare move, unsure if Kenny might be playing dead to draw him near. Stan was always careful not to underestimate others.

“Stan.” Kenny’s voice was rough as gravel, and his breath harsh. “I gotta get out of here.”

“Then go,” Stan heard himself say. “Open the door. Get out.”

“But…the zombies…”

“Kenny, get out now,” A strange fury rang in Stan’s ears. “I don’t care. Leave.”

Something flickered over Kenny’s face, but before Stan could say anything, he turned and gripped the chain of the garage door. Gave it two violent tugs, reeling the door up just enough to slip under. Kenny glanced back at Stan, his handsome green eyes unreadable. Then he gave a final tug, releasing the chain and slipping under just in time for the garage door to slam shut behind him.

For some reason, hearing the metal crash choked Stan and he gasped for air, motion heaving through his lungs like the ocean. He didn’t know what possessed him, some horrible crushing… _emotion_ that ran through his veins white hot and left him dizzy enough to puke. The storage shed seemed infinitely darker without Kenny, quiet as a grave. Colder too, the air that leaked in when Kenny made his escape was brisk, and goosebumps prickled Stan’s neck.

Beside him Ike released a rattling breath. He stared at Stan with wide eyes. Lips parted in shock, arms and legs curled into him like he was trying to become as small as possible. When he did speak, his voice shook like a leaf.

“He’s gone.”

Swallowing the pill in his throat, Stan nodded. “Yeah.” He didn't know whether or not he should move closer to Ike, whether that would comfort the boy or cause him to flinch away. Still, some magnetic force pulled him, and he moved closer. Perhaps it was his own loneliness, growing achingly large with Kenny’s departure. After all the time Stan had spent alone, he figured that such a loneliness was numbed over time. There was no way to he could have predicted it would burst forth so readily from the moment it was fed.

Ike let him draw near, remaining motionless. Wetness tracked down his cheeks and he sniffed occasionally. Suddenly a strange look rippled over Ike’s face and he doubled over, hacking and coughing as a pale yellow liquid poured from his mouth.

Stan leapt Ike’s side, taking the boy’s shoulders and holding him up, letting him relax forward without falling into his own vomit. It was a good thing he did too, for Ike went limp the moment Stan took hold of him. Fear gripped Stan, and he set Ike down, trying to get a look at his face.

“Ike,” he muttered as he lay Ike down, curled on his side like a child in case he vomited again. “Ike, can you hear me?”

Eyes closed, Ike nodded. Dribbles of yellow fluid were still on his lips, and the stink from the pool of vomit was terrible, acrid and bringing a sour taste to the back of Stan’s tongue. He swallowed, willing his stomach not to follow the boy’s lead. Ike gasped again, fingers clenched around nothing. Immediately Stan unzipped his beaten jacket and draped it over the boy, even though Ike was already wearing the fall coat Kyle had picked for him the day of the raid. Ike trembled as though he was stripped naked in a freezing blizzard, wind and snow cutting to the bone.

“Ike,” said Stan, rubbing a hand over Ike’s shoulder blades, so prominent they felt like dinner plates. “We have to leave here. We need to find Kyle.”

“Kenny,” mumbled Ike. “He was…a monster.”

Stan closed his eyes. He did not know whether he believed the answer he gave or not. “Yeah.”

“Leo’s dead, and Kenny’s gone,” Ike’s words held an eerie beat, as though they were still thoughts.

“I’m still here, Ike,” Stan answered immediately. “I’m always gonna be here, you hear me?”

“I don’t _know_ that.” The corners of Ike’s lips turned down in a grimace and he sobbed. “First Kyle’s gone, then Leo, then Kenny…”

“Kyle’s still out there.”

“We don’t know that,” said Ike, hardly a whisper.

“Yes we _do,_ ” said Stan through clenched teeth. There was no other possibility he would consider. “He’s out there, Ike. We gotta find him. Let’s go.”

Whether it was from Stan’s prodding or his own will, Ike stirred. Slowly, he propped himself up with feeble arms and wiped the vomit from his chin. Shrugged off Stan’s jacket and handed it back. Zipped his coat to the chin. Stood up, slowly. His jeans were rumpled around the leg, entirely too loose. It was scary to see.

“Christ,” said Stan, shaking his head. “We gotta get you some food.”

Despite the paleness of his face, Ike raised a brow. “Me? Have you seen yourself lately?” His voice flitted like a bird, and his eyes were still dull. His tone was disdainful. “You’re a wreck.”

Ignoring the jab, Stan slipped his jacket on, the thick leather weighing on his skin like a comforter. There was nothing of service in the room, just a heap of useless antiques and furniture. There was no food, as Stan realized that somewhere in the confusion his backpack went missing. Desperation seizing him, he patted his pockets only to find them flat. Stan turned to Ike.

“Check your pockets.”

Confused, Ike did so. He pulled out the empty linings and pressed his lips in a thin line.

“Shit.” Stan cursed aloud. He thought maybe Kyle would have packed something, that over-protective nurturing instinct wanting to make sure Ike was properly fed.

“There was a granola bar,” said Ike. “I ate it already. It was bad.”

“Bad?”

“Expired.”

Then it was clear- all they could do was move on. Stan racked his brains, thinking off all the possible food sources in a great abandoned city.

“Here’s the plan” said Stan, “We find a roof, climb it. When we’re safe, we look for a grocery store or restaurant. Anyplace with stored food.”

“Not Kyle?”

It pained Stan to say it. “Food has to be our first priority.” When Ike turned away, Stan scrambled to correct himself. “We can’t keep on the way we are, our bodies will give out on us. We’re weak.”

Ike agreed in the end, but still, he left Stan with a deeply uneasy feeling. He hardly looked Stan in the eye, surveyed the relics in the storage garage with something like he was peering down at a pile of maggots. A muscle jumped about his jaw. Slowly, Ike reached down and picked up a broken vase, its colour indiscernible from the candle light. His thumb circled over the smooth pottery, a precise movement. For a full second Stan wondered if he would throw it. Then, smooth faced, Ike replaced the broken piece back to the floor.

“Not sharp enough to be a weapon,” muttered Ike. His head was still bowed as though he was addressing the floor.

Stan shook himself, returning the breath to his body. “Alright then, just leave it. Are you ready to go?”

“No.”

Stan frowned, but before he could open his mouth, Ike replied. “But let’s go. I’d rather die out in the sun than in some lady’s dusty old locker.”

So they left, taking great care to sidestep the pool of vomit left by Ike near the front. The candle they extinguished. It would be too difficult to keep alive while carrying it, and left unattended, it might start a fire. Stan held the door up for Ike, who wedged a crate beneath it to keep it up. They smuggled underneath like soldiers, and Stan was relieved to find that there were no zombies close by. Just a few old ones swaying precariously in the distance, threatening to fall over the moment a wind came. Kenny must have led them all away. Stan hoped that Kenny hadn’t meant to, that he’d tried to get away as quickly as possible. But the terrible truth that sank in as Stan looked around the barren, silent streets, was that Kenny still rooted for their survival. Even after everything that happened.

“Look,” said Ike, pointing to dark splotches on the asphalt as Stan’s suspicions were confirmed. “Blood. Is it Kenny’s?”

“Probably,” Stan swallowed. “He probably, uh…” Stan made the cutting motion of a blade against his palms. “To make a scent.”

The day was cool and grey, faded like a tossed out newspaper. Clouds stretched over the sky like pulled cotton. Stan and Ike walked alongside one another in silence for the most part. There was no need to scramble up the nearest building, as it seemed that Kenny’s blood had enticed every zombie within a mile radius. Stan wondered if there was something in it that drew zombies like ravenous piranhas. The opposite of Tweak’s repellent blood. In any case, it had helped more than Kenny could know. Stan wondered where he had gone. Perhaps they would find him with Kyle and be reunited. The thought was pleasant, Stan found. He hoped it was true.

Ike stopped walking suddenly, and for a moment Stan was confused. Then he followed the boy’s darkening gaze down the alleyway, and the setting became familiar. Horribly familiar. The body was still there, crumpled and small, the face completely shredded and bloodied by the bullet’s impact. A few closer steps revealed that the stomach was torn wide open, crudely, by undead fingers, blood so dark it looked black pooled inside. The smell gagged him, but Stan forced his eyes away. He couldn’t let this be his last memory of Butters.

Ike’s lip quivered, and Stan worried he might vomit again. With nothing left to throw up but stomach acid, Ike would retch and burn his throat. But with resolve, the boy clenched his fists in his pockets and swallowed. Carefully, Stan put his hand on Ike’s shoulder and led him away. They exchanged no words, but Ike crept his hand to Stan’s and held it tight, not looking at him.

“It’s almost normal now,” said Ike after they had walked a while. The sun, though dimmed by clouds, moved languidly through the sky. “It doesn’t feel like he’s dead. Just like he’s on vacation or something. Like he’ll be back.”

“He won’t be,” muttered Stan.

“It’s the same with all of them. I keep forgetting. I imagine all of them with Kyle, right now. Red, Craig, Leo… Like they just got separated from us for a bit. Like us and Kyle.”

“But it’s different, Ike. You have to understand that. They’re not coming back.” A prick ran down Stan’s throat. “They’re dead.”

He waited for Ike to respond, but the boy didn’t say anything. Instead, he tightened his hand around Stan’s, the other shoved firmly in his coat pocket.

Eventually they stumbled across a ransacked grocery store in one of the strip mall areas. Massive and plainly architected, it had held up well during the years of apocalyptic activity. Still, the automatic doors were broken, forced permanently open. Shopping carts were strewn about the lot like cows in a meadow, some tipped over, a few broken beyond repair. Stan grabbed a decent cart and rolled it towards the entrance.

“That’s optimistic,” remarked Ike of the large cart as he followed Stan closely, watching warily for signs of danger.

Stan shrugged. “It’s for you, actually. Hop in.”

Ike rolled his eyes, but the gesture warmed Stan. He was so relieved just to hear Ike talk.

They passed through the entrance and into the supermarket. Chaotic echoes of shouting and fighting were everywhere, in the crushed food on the floor, the toppled shelves, the broken cash registers cleaned of money. The smells were strange and varied- rotting meat, mothballs, cleaner fluid, an unidentifiable sweetness that lingered in the air. Massive square glass windows lined the walls, lighting the store considerably, for which Stan was grateful. There were no sounds, which was eerie. To be inside a store utterly devoid of sound, even the retail hum of the electricity running through the lights, was like attending a funeral in a church. Quiet, very quiet, and haunted. Even without the obvious clatter of the undead, Stan knew better than to let his guard down. He expected to find at least one dead body in here.

“Is there a tools section?” asked Stan, squinting at the signs overhead each aisle. The words danced before him, meaningless, but Ike nodded. “Find a wrench, or a hammer. Something you can carry, that has leverage.”

“Leverage?”

“I want you to feel like you could bash a skull open with it.” Stan demonstrated, swinging with his free hand in a fist. “Do that while I find something to eat.”

Looking less than excited, Ike swallowed and left. Splitting up left Stan with an uneasiness in his stomach too, but he knew it was necessary to instil the feeling in Ike. This way they were able to work quicker, cover more ground, and get more done. On a darker note, if they were ever attacked, splitting up was the best way to ensure the survival of at least one of them. Ike couldn’t learn that clinging to him like a lost child was okay. Although it was certainly a habit that Kyle encouraged in him from a young age, Stan was sure. _The only one you can rely on is you, and the sooner he learns that, the better off he’ll be_

Following his nose rather than the signs, Stan found the canned goods, cereals and breakfast bars. There was a measly selection left to choose from. A thick layer of dust coated the shelves, with crushed boxes and loose cereal scattered all over the floor. But a precious few remained intact. Ripping the cardboard open and sniffing inside, Stan sorted through what was bad, what was good, what was at least salvageable in a pinch, pausing every few seconds to shove a greedy mouthful of whatever he held at the moment down his throat. After going so long without, his stomach gurgled with excitement. He was surprised that there was food left at all. The infection must have spread through this city faster than starvation did. _The undead don’t care much for granola_

Sudden footsteps seized Stan’s heart, but it was only Ike. The small boy held a large metal hammer with a black handle, about the length of his forearm, out for Stan to see.

“How’s this?”

Stan nodded. “That’s perfect. You’re not gonna get tired holding that?”

“I don’t think so.”

Stan motioned for Ike to come over. “Eat something. There’s loads here.”

Together they picked through the remaining goods, Ike nibbling on a granola bar all the while. His bites were worryingly small, but Stan refrained from saying anything. He supposed it was better for Ike to eat a little bit and get used to food again, than it was for him to stuff himself until he was sick. Something Stan remembered doing more than once, and regretting it every single time. _You wind up puking everything back out,_ he remembered scornfully. _What a waste._

“We should find you a bag,” said Stan, breaking Ike’s concentration as he surveyed the back of a rainbow coloured cereal box, faded from time. “You need to have something to carry things with.”

“You’ve got a bag,” said Ike absently, still reading.

“Well, you need one too. I can’t carry it all.”

Frowning, Ike held the cereal box in thought for a moment. Then he set it down and picked up a new box, some adult’s bran cereal, and began to examine the nutritional contents there. His eyebrows furrowed hard in concentration, perhaps too hard. The whole gesture seemed forced.

“What if we get split up?” Stan asked, remembering to be gentle. “You won’t have anything but your hammer.”

Ike shrugged. He set the new box down. “We should probably take this one, it has iron in it.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. “It has metal in it?”

“Iron, like the vitamin. It’s good for you.”

Stan pictured pouring a box of tiny iron nails into a cereal bowl, making tiny clinks as they rattled. He suppressed a shudder, imagining the scratch of metal down his throat.

“It’s in the human blood,” Ike continued. “Statistics say that one in six people have an iron deficiency. Women need more iron than men.”

Unsure how to respond, Stan nodded. As he looked at Ike, he noticed the faraway gaze with which Ike recalled information, and how something of a twinkle snuck behind his eyes. Not quite, but almost.

Stan and Ike crammed the backpack full of granola bars and sealed baggies of cereal. Lugging around bulky cereal boxes was just too impractical, so the boys chose from what was the least spoiled and salvaged those bits. In the end they wound up with a wonderful bounty, Stan’s backpack weighing on his shoulders considerably more. Ike held one of the baggies in his hand, still nibbling absent mindedly at Stan’s encouragement.

The silence between them was not as cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, please leave a review! Can't promise when I'll update again (school), but hopefully soon. Have a great day


	37. Chapter 37

Once again they traversed the empty streets, Stan ever so slightly leading the way. Backpack full of goods, and blood pumping fresh sugar through his veins, it was the best Stan had felt in a long time. Perhaps it also had something to do with the small presence beside him, keeping step and working hard not to fall behind with gritted teeth. Ike's endurance was waning, but he persevered. A trickle of sweat marked his forehead, but he didn't ask to stop, and within Stan tingled something like pride. Ike clenched the hammer tight and swung it occasionally, testing its weight. Stan wished that he had the time to stop and practice with Ike. Teach him how to spar, properly. It was doubtful Kyle had taught Ike anything but how to hide. Though it was obvious Ike had an instinct for swiftness, and he was clever enough to avoid trouble, Stan was uneasy. Especially when he realized the easiest way to track down the others might jeopardize the both of them.

"Ike," said Stan as they walked down the middle of the street, weapons carelessly at their sides, "Do you hear anything?"

Ike shrugged. "Moaning, in the distance."

"It's coming from that way, I think," Stan pointed down the street, towards the thick of the city. "We're going to follow the sound. Chances are that Kyle and the others are somewhere in the thick of a horde, camping out on some roof."

Ike paled, but swallowed and nodded. "Okay. If it'll help us find Kyle."

"Good," said Stan, clasping Ike's shoulder and giving it a friendly shake. He couldn't pretend that he wasn't starving to see Kyle's freckled, familiar face again. The cheeks flushed red with blood. Living, breathing. Eyes that still twinkled with life, not marble blank or frenzied with bloodlust. Human.

"I miss him," Stan heard Ike whisper under his breath.

Navigating the rubble of the city, the walk was largely uneventful, until a distinctive groaning froze Stan in his tracks just as he was about to step about the street corner. He thrust his arm out and caught Ike by the chest.

"Shh, just around the corner."

A seriousness overtook Ike's face, and he poised his hammer in front of him.

Stan crept to the corner and dared to stick his head out. There were three zombies he counted, milling listlessly in the street, decayed so horribly that it was a wonder they could still stand. The closest had been a man, fully grown, just a few feet from Stan. So old that bones creaked as it caught Stan's scent and turned, slowly, dead eyes staring forward. Stan stiffened, but the other two zombies took no notice, continuing to gape as though they were lost in thought. They would be easy kills.

Already moving, Stan swung his wrench out and hit the zombie square in the head with a squelchy crunch, barely blinking as dead blood sprayed his face. It dropped like a stone, the side of its skull crushed inward like broken china and black liquid oozing out. Not even one blow and the creature was done for, feebly twitching like a mouse in a trap.

"You see that?" asked Stan, wiping the blood off with his sleeve. "These ones are weak, they're old. I doubt they could still bite through skin." He poked through the dead zombie's mouth with his wrench, exposing rotted gums devoid of teeth. "Turned about seven years ago, I'd bet. Those ones too. Think you could manage?"

Stuck dumb for a moment, Ike stared at him. He blinked. "You mean…kill them?"

"Yeah."

" _Both_?"

"If you can."

"I-I've never killed a zombie before."

Stan shrugged, gesturing with the bloodied end of his wrench. "Well you gotta learn some time."

The conversation drew the other two zombies, empty mouths gaping hungrily like baby birds. The sad, stumbling nature of their shuffle almost made Stan pity them. Too old to fend for themselves, trapped in the decaying wreck of their own bodies and complacently starving to death. But they were perfect practice targets.

"See the first one?" Stan leaned over Ike's shoulder and pointed towards the skinnier of the two, hunched over, broken leg dragging behind, too disfigured to tell if it was a man or a woman. "It's slow, you're fast. Hit it in the side of the face, right next to one of its eyes. That's the easiest way to crack the skull."

Ike looked at him, a sudden awareness lighting his face. "I…I  _know_  that. Its call the pterion, the thinnest part of the skull. I read about it, from a book on human anatomy. How…did  _you_ know?"

The smell of blood was growing strong, and the urge to leave pressed Stan. "Years of practice. Now go."

He gave Ike a small push forward. The boy advanced, clutching his hammer with two hands and holding it out in front of him like a sword. The zombie was just a few steps away, but it wasn't in any rush. With a strange gurgle, it swayed and staggered towards Ike, thrown off by its own uneven weight and veering slightly to the left

Ike sidestepped as it lunged, and Stan marveled at how swift and lightly Ike moved, like a cat. He slipped behind the zombie and paused, sucking in a deep breath. He raised the hammer, eyes wide, arms trembling. Stan braced himself for the crunch, but Ike hesitated. Gripped the hammer, raised it above his head. Slowly, the zombie turned to face Ike, arms outstretched. Ike swallowed. Took a step back, then remembered the other zombie behind him and whipped around in fear. The two zombies encircled Ike, slobbering and moaning pathetically. Ike's eyes darted back and forth, trying to track the both of them at the same time.

Stan restrained himself from jumping in. There was no real danger yet, and Ike needed to learn this lesson.  _Kill or be killed_

"Ike," called Stan softly, "Take out the closer one."

Ike began to shake his head. "I can't- I can't do this."

"Yes you can, just aim and swing."

"No," Stan realized Ike was shaking, sweat beading on his forehead. "I couldn't…I can't."

Stan's mouth was dry, he licked his lips. "They're getting closer. Ike."

One zombie growled and took a feeble step. Ike's eyes shot to Stan. Full of terror. "I can't. Stan please.  _Please._  I couldn't in the forest- I-" Ike's words tumbled together as his nerves quickened. "I couldn't do it and then Craig died, I can't do it now- STAN LISTEN TO ME!" The words erupted from Ike in sheer desperation, and his eyes begged Stan. Both zombies yowled in response, the screams of raw fear exciting them.

Stan's stomach dropped like a stone. Ike was so small, trapped between the two lumbering zombies, Stan himself hadn't been much smaller when he had killed his first zombie.

_Running_

_Through unfamiliar trees_

_Footsteps beat_

_Heart beat beat_

_Small legs small arms pumping_

_Roars_

_From behind as the monster drew near_

_Bolting_

_Mad with hunger_

_Closing in fetid breath scratchy nails and the groaning groaning GROANING_

_Something catching his foot_

_Strangling his ankle_

_Small hands outstretch catching dirt_

_Something big looming above_

_Fingers curl into the earth_

_Something hard_

_Rock_

_Desperation seizing his bones, the small boy turns and drives the rock into the hunched zombie's head_

_stumbles_

_Stan pounces_

_Bashing again again again_

_AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN_

There was no simple answer. No way for Ike to ease into it. If he didn't kill these zombies now, Stan knew it would only be a matter of time before Ike wasn't fast enough to outrun his problems.

"Ike," said Stan, "You can do it."

A tear crawled down Ike's cheek, and he shook his head again. Stan glowered, squeezing his hammer and raised his voice, unable to stop frustration from crawling in.

"Do you  _want_  to see Kyle again or not?" he demanded.

The words had a resounding effect. Ike stopped sniffling, brow furrowed. Took a deep breath. Then another. Blue eyes flickered to Stan's, and a new resolve hardened behind them. The boy's face was still terrified, but that terror was now contained.  _All it took was a name_

Ike spun around suddenly and swung his hammer at the zombie with all his might. He miscalculated, landing the blow right in the curve of the zombie's neck. But the momentum carried through and the zombie crumpled to the side with a sudden cry, too garbled to even remotely seem human. Spurred on the by sudden aggression, the other zombie yowled and lumbered forward like a slobbering dog, lunging with its full weight at Ike. But the boy was quick. He ducked down and under the zombie's outstretched arm.

Stan's heart danced furiously as he watched Ike fight. He was right to trust that the kid could do it, that Ike's nerves wouldn't betray him in the heat of the moment. As Ike swung the hammer into the other zombie's head with such brutal intention that his eyes were aflame, Stan almost shivered. There was something unsettling, watching this small dark-haired child with his fingers curled around the base of a hammer too large for him, swinging it so hard his arms trembled. It was far too familiar an image.

The zombie sank to the ground, hammer sticking out of its skull at a bizarre angle. Gasping for air like he was drowning, Ike stumbled back and bent over, hands on his knees. The hammer clattered to the ground with finality. At his feet the zombie gurgled, black liquid pooling around its head.

Stan ran to the boy and caught his shoulders as he fell forward. "Ike? Ike that was great!" he said, trying to lift the boy's head and get a look at his eyes.

Suddenly small arms wrapped around Stan's waist so tightly it almost knocked the wind from Stan. Ike buried his head into Stan's chest and released a wracking sob. But it didn't come from a horrid, heart-wrenching place. It was more of a great gasp of relief. As Ike went limp against him Stan wondered if perhaps it wasn't the best idea to use Kyle as means for Ike to act. Especially if this was the longest the two brothers were parted for. Tentatively, Stan patted Ike's back. Something sore gnawed at the back of his throat.

"We'll find him soon," offered Stan, quietly.

Ike didn't say anything, but with one last sniff he released his arms and wiped his nose. Stan ruffled the boy's hair, wiped a speck of blood from Ike's cheek with his thumb. He wished he could wipe the sadness from the boy's eyes so easily.

Ike closed his eyes, long lashes brushing over pale skin. "I just want to see him again."

"You will," said Stan firmly.

The bodies lay still on the ground, dead eyes full of accusing stares up at the sky. The dust seemed to cloy around them, and it felt as though the whole world was holding its breath. There was no silence anymore. They were too close to the inner city, where the undead teemed like ants, and thousands of groans so far away they could scarcely be hear, hummed in the distance. The sounds crawled under Stan's skin, and he repressed a shudder. There was nothing to do but follow the buzz. Dive straight into the jaws of danger with nothing but whatever weapon was in his fist. It went against all instinct.

Stan figured the zombies would get quicker and sharper too, the deeper he and Ike went. The youngest were the most ravenous, and would surround any prey they could find like sharks. It would be safest to stick to higher ground. But Stan was unsure how long the journey would take. Even the mere thought of travelling at night set Stan's teeth on edge. He knew it would be better to wait until this day was over, as the sun was already sinking above them. It seemed the days were flying by, quickly as blinking. Stan wondered if it was Ike that consumed the time, giving him something to worry about during those lulls where he didn't have to run for his life. It frightened him too. Each day that passed was one less day Stan knew he would be alive, slipping through his hands like sand. He wondered how many grains were left in his hourglass.

"We should wait until morning," said Stan, observing the sky. "I know you want to get going, but we have to be smart about this. Something about the night air, zombies just go nuts. Almost makes them hungrier."

Ike's shoulders slumped. But he followed Stan's lead, around the corner and up the fire escape of some old apartment building. Stan hated the idea of sleeping in an enclosed space, especially after the hotel incident, so they climbed the thin metal stairs all the way to the roof. The roof of the apartment building had brick trimming around the edge, preventing one from accidentally stepping off the roof and plummeting stories down. The flat roof itself was gravel, with a small shack in the center that housed the stairs of the inside fire escape.

Once he and Ike were safely planted, Stan dropped his backpack with a sigh of relief. He heard Ike do the same, the crunch of gravel somewhere behind him. Once again, the weight of the world was lifted from Stan's shoulders, even if only for a night. Watching as the beginnings of stars twinkled in the darkening sky, Stan couldn't help but wish he could spend a while longer in this moment. There was plenty of food. The roof was safe, well above the dangers of the city. For the first time in so long,  _too long_ , Stan wasn't alone. He didn't feel alone.

The sun was only just beginning to set. There was still plenty of time.


	38. Chapter 38

The sun set with a splendid blend of colour that bled over the blue sky, slowly fading into the horizon as darkness loomed. The chorus of zombies stirred below, ever present, swirling beneath Stan's feet like currents. But the air was still, clearer even, on this rooftop. Too high for the pungent perfume of decay to reach, which hung like a fog amidst the city, but instead of dissipating from air they arose from the corpses of thousands. Cool air filled Stan's lungs, pure and quenching as though he was thirsty for it. There was a small breeze. Gentle. It swept over the rooftop and rustled softly in Stan's ear.

He turned to Ike, whose head was crooked up to gaze at the blinking stars. Eyes so wide Stan could almost see the sky reflected back in them, twinkling with the brilliance of a cosmos. Intelligent and refined with maturity, Ike seemed much older than twelve. His black hair was beginning to curl down the nape of his neck and tickle his brows, absolutely filthy with sweat and blood. Absently, Stan brushed fingers over his own scalp and found he wasn't much better off. His hair was so coated in filth that it stayed where his fingers combed it, as though he were styling it with gel. And his legs ached too, pins and needles that never seemed to completely go away. There was a fungal taste on his tongue from slowly rotting teeth.  _Toothpaste isn't exactly a priority in the apocalypse_

"Do you really think he's still alive?" muttered Ike, his gaze dropping over the city as it flooded red with the setting sun.

Stan walked up beside the boy and followed his gaze. Over the span of thousands of rooftops was nothing but silence and stillness. No figures in the distance, only the undead. And it was too easy to tell the difference. Stan knew if he saw a living human amongst those monsters, he would be able to pick them out right away.

"Of course," replied Stan. "He's smart. He's fast. He's still with Bebe."

"And Eric," added Ike, dejectedly. "Maybe. If they didn't get separated like we did."

"Right, yeah," said Stan, remembering in that moment that Eric was Cartman's first name.

His exhaustion catching up to him, Stan slowly sat down. He stretched his arms over his head, relishing in the crack of his neck and fingers.  _Pop_ the joints went like firecrackers.

Stan patted the spot next to him. "Sit down, you've gotta be exhausted, kid."

Ike did as he was told. Shrugged off the backpack and sat down close to Stan. Knees folded up, arms wrapped around the legs. He didn't make any motions to speak.

"You hungry?" offered Stan.

"No."

"Tired?"

"Not really."

Stan closed his mouth, feeling very awkward. He didn't know what else to say. There wasn't anything else he could do, was there? Words would not be salve to the pain of loss. Nothing he could say would change anything. Kyle was still unknowably far away, along with Bebe and Cartman. Kenny was unrecognizable. Tweek, unreachable, if he was even still alive. And that was a far sight better than Red, Craig, Butters…

"You remember when we first met?" asked Ike suddenly, pulling the conversation from thin air. "In that church? It seems like months ago."

"Really?" asked Stan, surprised. "I remember it like yesterday. It was just a few days ago."

"How many days?"

Stan frowned. "I can't remember exactly."

Ike nodded methodically. "That's okay. Me neither. I think five, maybe."

"Five or six, sure."

"Definitely in between four and eight."

"That sounds right."

"Yeah. You remember how you tried to kill me?"

Stan blushed, and he hung his head ashamedly. "Oh god, I do. What a fucking stupid thing. I never should have- god."

He felt a light jab at his shoulder, Ike giving him a small punch.

"It's okay, I understand. If I met me in the streets, I'd want to fight me too."

That made Stan laugh, and he felt wildly inappropriate as the noise came out. "Why?"

Ike shrugged. "I'm an asshole."

"Nah, you're a great kid."

"You clearly haven't talked to Kyle enough," quipped Ike. "I gave him all kinds of trouble. Never listened, not even if I knew it was for my own good. I'm not talking about the bomb shelter crap- that was a whole other level. Just little things, like hiding his laundry, putting salt in his food. One time I put a frog under his pillow and he screamed in the middle of the night," Ike went red at the memory, as though he'd been freshly caught in the act, but his eyes were full of amusement. Then his mouth dropped in an 'O', and he shook his head vigorously, like he was trying to shake the guilt from him.

"One time…one time," whispered Ike, with all the sanctity of a prayer, "I  _peed_ in his bathwater."

Wide eyes stared so guilty into Stan's, wide and fearful as a baby owl's, that all of a sudden it was too much. Stan threw his head back, unable to stop the howls of laughter exploding from his chest.

"Hahaha! That's fucking hilarious!" Oh my god! Oh my  _god!_ " For once, he didn't worry about the noise he was making. The roof was an unreachable island to the zombies below, who were so caught up in their own howls that they scarce heard Stan's.

A smile trembled to Ike's lips. "'Cause he hated pee, like, abnormally  _hated_ it. Got so grossed out if we didn't rinse our hands after going number one. Like, it annoyed everybody. Why did he care so much? We all sleep in one room, bathe once a week, we're already pretty disgusting."

Stan chuckled and shook his head. "I have no idea, kid. That's pretty great, though."

"But the worst part is, he never found out," said Ike, his voice escalating. "But afterward, he commented on how  _warm_ the  _water_ was." He shuddered, face squeezed like he'd just tasted lemon juice.

"The perfect crime," commented Stan, still wearing a grin.

"Hah, yeah…" Ike trailed off. "I swear, when we find him, I'm gonna confess every dirty thing I did. Every rotten detail…" He gave a deep sigh.

Stan watched him, wary.

"I wish I'd been a better brother," Ike confessed softly.

The wind picked up, chilling Stan. Ike shivered, pulling his coat tightly around him. The sun was nearly gone over the horizon, the last strands of red tinting the city.

The urge to put his arm around Ike and warm him struck Stan, and he was surprised by how powerful it welled. But he was dissuaded by how Ike might react. The kid had been through so much. Stan imagined how he would react, twelve years old and already bitter about life. It'd be like trying to pet a feral cat. Instead, he resigned himself to toying with the lace of his boot.

"You're fine, Ike," he said. "I'm sure you were fine."

"I could have been better."

"Doubt it. I mean, maybe," said Stan, shrugging. "But dwelling on it won't change anything."

Ike looked up at him with slight amazement. "How do you do that?" he asked, perplexed. "Nothing bothers you. Not for long. Even since Craig, you've just been the same. I feel so different. I act different. My thoughts never stop, they're always running. It hurts, it's like growing pains in my brain. I think about death a lot now. I think about God. I don't think God exists, I don't know. I want God to exist. I want to stop being so afraid, I want to believe in Heaven. What if there's nothing? Why do we keep on living, in a world that's falling apart before our eyes? What's the point? Everybody dies, no one is special…I hate these thoughts. I wish they'd stop, but they keep coming. They keep me up at night and I can't sleep. It's too much. Too much," said Ike with finality, lashes fluttered downwards. He sighed, and muttered under his breath, " _To be, or not to be… "_

"What?" asked Stan.

"Nothing. Hamlet."

"Oh," Stan nodded like he understood. He went quiet again. Ike really had made some good points. It was difficult trying to slow down, remembering how young Ike was still. Not that young, not some naive lamb wandering dry plains full of lions. Twelve, on the brink of manhood. And Ike was well socialized, having been taught and raised by Kyle, who undoubtedly would have been a genius in another life. Hearing these deepest parts of Ike's thoughts, so grandly spoken and eloquently put, Stan suddenly felt much smaller than the dark haired boy sitting next to him.

Then, with a sweet tentativeness, Stan felt Ike's head lean into his shoulder as the boy suppressed a yawn.

"I'm so tired, but I can't stop thinking."

Stan stretched his arm around Ike and gave him a quick rub to warm him. "I've never had that problem," he joked.

It worked, and a small grin appeared for a moment. But seriousness wiped it away the next second. ADD MORE HERE

"At any rate, there's no way you were a worse brother than I was," Stan threw the bait with caution, wondering if Ike would bite.

Intrigued, Ike's ears perked and he raised his head.

"I was horrible, absolute shit to Shelly," continued Stan, being careful, "And she was absolute shit to me too. We called each other every name in the book, fought, it drove my parents insane. I don't really remember much…"  _shove it down shove it down_ "…I got sick once, with the flu. I had to miss…something big. Birthday party or something. Shelly rubbed it in my face, so I coughed on her pillow. She missed a week of school, she got so sick."

"That's spiteful," commented Ike, not sounding too bothered. "You were ruthless even before the apocalypse, eh?"

Stan chuckled, amused. "I guess I was."

"But she was mean to you too."

"Yeah. After I told her it was me that got her sick, she beat me up."

"She beat you?" asked Ike, appalled.

"Oh yeah. Don't worry," assured Stan, "It was just kid stuff, we fought all the time. Once she knocked out a baby tooth, but that was the worst we got."

"Wow," mumbled Ike, losing himself to his thoughts. "Kyle never hit me."

"Good, he shouldn't."

"He fought a lot with the other kids his age though. Especially Eric. There was one argument, I remember…it got so bad Kyle threw the first punch. He never started fights, only finished them. But I think…I think Eric was talking about cutting loose dead weight, all the weaker ones, Leo, Tweek…I'm sure my name came up. That's probably what made Kyle snap."

Eric's name sent a roiling rage through Stan, and he grimaced. "What an asshole," he spat. "I can't imagine what kind of a monster Cartman would've become if he raised himself."

Ike lifted his head from Stan and lazily rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "But you're okay."

_I'm really not_

"You're so strong, you don't let anything stop you from living," reasoned Ike. "You stay in the present. You don't dwell. You taught yourself how to survive."

"I taught myself how to forget," retorted Stan, realizing it for the first time as he said it. "It's not that great, Ike."

A troubling thought must have crossed Ike's mind, for he frowned and bit the inside of his cheek.

"If Kyle…was gone," he brooded, "I'd want to forget. I can't even imagine what it would be like without him. I don't want to know what it would be like."

"You don't think it's worth remembering all the good times?" prodded Stan.

Ike sighed, long and tired. "I don't know."

He was exhausted by the notion, Stan could see. It was a lot to contemplate. Even Stan found himself wondering now, in the back of his mind, what pain he was missing. Seeing how tragedy had ripped through the group so brutally and completely, it seemed insane that he should want to experience it for himself. Searing pain that heated the soul, icy fear, electric passion. It would certainly be a change from the regular, numb, nothing.  _I feel nothing._ Stan wondered if that meant he was broken.

"You didn't forget everything," added Ike, after a while. "You remembered Kyle, you remembered South Park. Your sister. Me."

"Barely."

"What else do you remember?"

The question struck Stan, and he straightened up. "You mean, from South Park?"

"Anything. Were there any good times after you left that are worth remembering?"

Perplexed, Stan searched his mind. He was so used to moving forward, going forward, that he scarcely took the time to reminisce. It was always dangerous, he felt, the fear that getting caught up in the past would cloud the present always looming. Ike was silent, watching him with intent.

"I guess…" started Stan, slowly as he stuck his hands into the dirt piled over his memories and searched, "…when I was fifteen, I travelled a lot. I met this group in a forest…I think it was in Canada."

"That's far."

"Four boys my age," continued Stan, "No, wait, five." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember faces, names. "I met them right after one of theirs had died. They didn't trust me at first, but I saved one of them, so they let me stay the night. They had this secluded cabin, so deep in the woods that zombies rarely wandered by. They gave me food and let me sleep on a bed. We played games. I remember they didn't trust me at first, especially not the leader. He was an asshole. But then, later in the evening, they all started talking about the kid that had died, and…" Something warm stirred in Stan. "…they really cared about him. He must have been a great kid. Something about it made me feel…quiet. Like, at ease."

"Peaceful?" offered Ike, quietly.

The word swelled with truth. "Yeah."

"What happened?" asked Ike.

"I left." The memory was a bitter seed, and Stan was angry with himself. "I don't know why I did. They said I could stay, if I wanted."

"Maybe you were worried about caring too much?" wondered Ike, his quiet voice very gentle to listen to. "You'd lost your family. You didn't want to lose anyone else."

"Maybe."

"If you had stayed, you might not have come back to South Park."

Realization settled over Stan like dust. "That's true."  _How many people would be alive if I'd stayed in that forest?_

Silence again, and Stan wondered if Ike was contemplating the very same thing he was, a knot growing in his stomach.

"I'm glad you came back," Ike announced finally, pushing his dark hair back from his brow. "I'm glad I met you."

But shame buried Stan, and he was unable to stop himself from asking, "What if I hadn't come back? None of this shit started until I came."

"Stan, I've thought about this," said Ike, looking Stan in the eye. "The zombies were coming no matter what. When I think about it…you're probably the reason half of us are alive at all. I thought about blaming you, but it's just illogical."

It was a bizarre gesture, but the bitterness in Stan's throat dissolved, and a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. "Thanks, Ike."

The sky was completely dark now, thousands of stars twinkling above them. Stan hadn't even noticed the sun setting.

"Were-" Ike suppressed a yawn as it overtook him, "Were there any other good times?" He lay down, curled on his side and head rested on his arm for a pillow.

Taking the cue, Stan lay down on his back, fingers laced behind his head. Ike's back was to him, but the boy's presence was still reassuring. He was still listening, Stan knew.

"I'm sure there were," he assured Ike while flying through blurry memories. "One guy I found was a loner, like me. We stayed together for a bit. I taught him how to shoot a gun, he'd never held one before. I think he was Canadian. I must've been…seventeen. He was older, about thirty. Maybe older, I can't remember. He didn't seem old though, it wasn't like he had things figured out any better than I did. Kevin, Keith, it was something like that…" Stain trailed off as he tried to picture Kevin/Keith's face.

"Mmhmm?" prodded Ike, sleepy and quiet.

"He was kind," remembered Stan. "I think he told me he was an actor before everything happened. A real charismatic guy. He could weasel his way into any group he wanted, but he told me he preferred to be alone. We split shortly after. I wonder if he's still alive." Stan paused, but Ike didn't say anything, so he continued. "Another time I met two girls, sisters. They told me they were twins, but they didn't look alike at all."

"Fraternal," mumbled Ike.

"What?"

"Nothing, continue."

"So these sisters nearly shot me the first time they saw me, and I guess I can't blame them, 'cause I was stealing their food when we met. They let me stay with them for a bit, but the one kept telling the other to kick me out. I was…somewhere between twelve and fourteen, still young enough for them to pity me. The one with short hair was nice. She gave me animal crackers when the other one wasn't around. Eventually I was too much work, and they left in the middle of the night. I woke up…and they were gone."

A soft snore answered Stan, and he realized Ike was asleep. Drowsiness weighed on Stan's eyelids, and a powerful yawn overtook him. Stretched his arms over his head, flexing the fingers, toes. The rooftop was cold and stiff, but bearable.

"You'll be here when I wake up." The though slipped through Stan's lips, but Ike couldn't hear it anyways. He let his eyes close. Ike's body heat was warm beside him, comforting.

It hardly bothered him, all the time wasted in reminiscence. An entire evening without hunger or fear gone in a blink. Now the sun was down. With great reluctance, Stan let himself slip into sleep. If he stayed in this moment any longer, he'd keep himself up all night, and would be useless in the morning. These still moments were so rare nowadays. Too rare.

He tried not to think about what morning might bring.


	39. Chapter 39

  
It was an ear splitting scream that woke Stan.

_“AUGH!”_

He jerked awake, hand automatically reaching for the knife in his boot. The first thought in his sleep-muddle brain was _Ike, where’s Ike?_ He looked around wildly until his eyes fell on a small body sprawled on its side a little ways away.

Stan advanced slowly. “Ike?”

Ike didn’t turn over, but continued to kick and twitch like a dog dreaming about hunting rabbits. As Stan drew closer, he could hear troubled breathing, see Ike’s nose twitch, his gaping mouth. Clothing askew, it looked as though Ike moved around a lot in his sleep. He was still deeply asleep, but mumbling words Stan could not understand.

Then suddenly the boy went still. Stan held his breath as he saw Ike’s eyes move from beneath his closed lids. Then sucking in a deep breath. Stan realized he was about to scream again.

Stan grabbed Ike’s shoulders and shook. “Wake up! Ike. Ike, you’re okay. It’s Stan.”

Ike’s eyes wretched open. Stan could see the whites all around, and he felt the boy trembling in his hands. “It’s Stan,” he repeated, the only thing he could think to say that would comfort Ike.

Blue eyes darted frantically until they found Stan. It took Ike a while to focus, appearing to adjust as sleep gave way to reality. His mouth was still slack, a dribble of saliva hanging out. Ike blinked a few times, then took a deep breath and wiped his mouth. He sat up and leaned forward, clutching his knees, still shaking.

“I had a bad dream,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“They got Kyle, and he was a zombie, but he could still talk. He was saying, _Ike, come here, come give me a hug Ike…_ ” Ike trailed off. His gaze was glassy, faraway. “In my dream…he had both his arms.”

“Well, it can’t come true then. It was just a dream.”

“I know that.”

“I just mean-”

“I know, Stan.”

Stan went quiet. Ike was irritated. There were dark circles around his eyes, too reminiscent of the skull beneath the skin for Stan’s liking. The boy seemed even paler, like the nightmare drained his blood. His fingers twitched, tapping the head of the hammer swinging from the belt loop of his too-big jeans. Even though most of the blood and gunk was wiped away, there were still stubborn dark stains congealed on the edges of the hammer. Stains too, on Ike’s shirt and jacket.

Ike looked at Stan again, and for a moment Stan wondered about the stains he couldn’t see. Behind the blue eyes and white, freckly skin, what dark things stained Ike from within like blood? They appeared for fleeting seconds, in the way his hands trembled, the shadows beneath his eyes, the glassy look that overcame him from time to time and made Stan want to shake him to make sure he was still there. The way he bit his lips, not so much with neurotic nervousness, as grinding teeth into flesh with such ferocity it made Stan wonder what Ike was demanding of himself. What the stains bled over and continued to bleed over, spreading filth and mess. Stan wondered if they would ever come out.

“So,” Ike said suddenly, shifting uncomfortably. “What’s the plan? We should retrace our steps, shouldn’t we? To where we got separated?”

Stan nodded. “Yeah. They should still be up on that restaurant, unless something forced them to move. They wouldn’t try to travel with Kyle’s arm. If they did the smart thing, they stayed put.”

“What if they thought we stayed put,” Ike said slowly, with horrible possibility, “and left to try and find us?”

“Then we look for them.”

“What if -”

“Kyle is fine,” Stan interrupted, feeling itchy. He wanted nothing more than to get on the ground and find his best friend, alive. And stave off Ike’s imagination from concocting any more ugly images. “We’re burning daylight. You good to go?”

Ike swallowed. His hand went to his hammer, already instinct. “Yes.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Once again, in the pale morning light, Stan and Ike’s footfalls fell over the bleak city streets. With the morning sun came an eerie silence that made Stan’s skin prickle with anticipation. He held his wrench in a white knuckle grip. The streets were disturbingly clean of zombies. Every breeze that rustled garbage across the road made Stan flinch, ready for a dead pair of arms to charge him.

Ike looked confused too, and even more frightened. Stan understood. It was far more uneasy not knowing where the threat was. Stan would prefer ten zombies in plain sight that one zombie waiting for him in around a corner, unseen. He wondered where they all were.

The boys prowled down an alleyway that emptied into a main street in what was once the heart of the city, perhaps downtown from the looks of the buildings. It was so quiet Stan could hear his own heart thrumming in his chest.

“This is where we got separated,” said Ike, peering around. “That’s where we went,” he pointed to the hotel. “And that’s where they went,” Ike looked across the street to the restaurant with the broken sign. There was no sign of life on the roof.

It was an easy building to climb, Stan found. Lots of uneven bricks made excellent footholds, and protruding bricks were easy to grab hold of. He went first, not wanting Ike to see whatever terribly surprise might be waiting at on the roof. But to his disappointment, there was nothing but flat rooftop.

Ike scrambled up quickly after Stan, huffing. Sweat sheened his forehead. “They’re not here,” he exclaimed, frowning in worry.

Stan strode to the other side of the roof and looked out at the neighbouring street. When he looked out into the street, his heart dropped to his stomach.

Far away was a massive swarm of the undead. There had to be at least a hundred writhing and straining like maggots up around something Stan couldn’t see. He could hear the distant moaning up on the roof. And with a sinking certainty, Stan knew something was attracting them.

“Oh no.” Ike’s face was grey, his eyes fixed on the distant writhing mass.

Stan seized Ike’s hand. “We have to get there. Now. You ready?”

Ike looked at him, determination filling his eyes, and nodded.

The boys raced over the crumbling ruins, jutting edges and sagging buildings making easy hurdles to cross. Stan’s blood pounded in his ears. The stench of death thickened as the boys rounded past corners and burned through the dead veins of the city. Always, Stan kept Ike in the corner of his eye. There was no need to hold the boy’s hand anymore. He kept up with Stan, hammer at the ready. Stan wondered if Ike would ever actually use the hammer for its original purpose, making things.

“We’re getting close,” said Stan, slowing to a jog. His heart pounded. “We need to get some height.”

“There.” Ike pointed to a school building with half the roof caved in, surrounded by suburban homes that looked like part of a war zone. It was just a few blocks away, and spare zombies trickled in towards it from the neighbourhood. “Whatever’s attracting them is just on the other side.”

Stan eyed the zombies uneasily. “We’re gonna have to make a run for it. They’re too close to sneak past.”

Ike nodded, watching the zombies. Then he suddenly turned to Stan.

“I’m scared.”

Stan was almost annoyed. “Kid, you’ve faced zombies before. No sweat.”

“No, not the zombies. The other side.”

“What do you mean?”

Pain filled Ike’s eyes. “What if it’s him on the other side, and he’s dead, and that’s why they’re all here. What if it’s his body and we were too late?”

“Ike.” Stan mustered every final scrap of sincerity he could. “He is alive. I promise you.” He leaned close. “ _I promise you.”_

_I have no idea if that’s true_

But Ike nodded and swallowed the last of his weakness.

_Please God let it be true_

“We’ll go on three,” said Stan. “Okay?”

Ike nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay. One.”

_Please God_

“Two.”

_Please let Kyle be alive_

“Three.”

The boys ran and suddenly the world was a blur around them.

With a snarl, the zombies turned. Stan didn’t look at them, only focusing on the brick wall he was going to scale, praying it was stable. They raced past an empty flagpole and over gravel, and Stan realized this was probably an elementary school.

The ledge was a good six feet in the air, but Stan was quick as a cat and scrambled up and over the brick wall. He reached down and grabbed Ike’s outstretched hands, heaving him up just as the stragglers closed in.

They raced up the slanted rooftop, and Stan realized with horror there were human voices coming from the other side. He and Ike made it to the peak, and Ike froze.

There was a great open field behind the school, and near the building was a playground. It had been newer when the apocalypse happened, made of metal and twisting high with ladders and bridges and slides, the chippings of primary colour paints still noticeable. There was a mini rock wall and a fire pole and right at the very highest level on the flimsy metal platform were Bebe, Cartman, and Kyle.

Cartman was shouting at the top of his lungs at Bebe, clutching the railing like a seasick crewman.  Bebe shrieked back inaudibly, clutching a shotgun and standing between Cartman and Kyle. There were shiny tracks down her cheeks and unmistakable rage in her voice.

“… _you_ … _the zombies…fucker!”_ Then she looked over Cartman’s shoulder and saw Stan. Her face changed to shock, prodding Cartman to turn. His piggish mouth gaped in disbelief.

“NO WAY!”

He didn’t get to say more because Kyle shoved past him with the rawest expression of relief on his face. Kyle didn’t do as much as glance at Stan. He only have eyes for his brother. Then he mouthed something that neither Stan nor Ike could hear over the howling undead, but understood immediately.

_Ike_

“Kyle,” Ike sobbed.

Stan cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re gonna get you outa there! Just- just hang tight!” His mind scrambled for a plan, but the zombies howled relentlessly. A few took note of Stan and Ike on the rooftop and lazily changed tactics, making for the school building instead, but hardly enough broke away to make a dent in the horde. Stan wondered if it would even be possible to lure away an entire horde of zombies from three terrified flesh-and-blood humans pumping with adrenaline and fear just out of arm’s reach.

Gunshot rang, and Stan saw Bebe aiming the smoking rifle at a zombie trying to climb up the slide, its head blasted open. Another zombie crawled over it, advancing further. Bebe reloaded. Her aim was perfect, exploding the zombie’s head like a water balloon, but sweat trickled down her face and her eyes were white with fear. Every body that piled up was a step ladder for the zombies to get closer to the top of the playground, Stan realized.

In between reloads, Bebe reached into her back pocket and pulled out a gun. Making meaningful eye contact with Stan, she threw it to him with a grunt. The gun soared through the air over the horde unnoticed, and Stan leapt to catch it. The metal banged his fingers and stung, and he almost lost his balance, but he managed to grasp it.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HE GOING TO DO WITH THAT?!” Cartman screamed at Bebe, livid.

“HELP US!” She screamed back without turning her head.

Stan fired at a zombie reaching for Kyle’s ankles from behind Bebe’s back. She would guard one side and he would guard the other until there was a plan.

_think_

_think, Marsh_

_there’s always something_

_something_

Stan was so wrapped up in his own mind that he did not notice Ike digging through his backpack, furiously looking for something.

**BANG**

**BANG**

**BANG**

Gunshot rang in rapid succession as the pile of writhing bodies grew higher, unfeeling zombies crawling over their own dead. Stan counted each shot in his head. If the gun Bebe tossed him was fulling loaded, he had two shots left.

“HURRY UP!” Cartman shrieked, looking half-insane. “DO SOMETHING!”

**BANG**

Another zombie tumbled to the ground with a thud, and another crawled over to take its place. The guns were useless, Stan realized, in the face of a swarm so massive. Useless.

_one bullet left, Marsh_

_just one bullet_

_Kyle_

_I’m so_

_so_

_sorry_

_at least_

_it will be quick_

Stan aimed the gun at Kyle’s head.

Kyle’s eyes went wide. A myriad of expressions flickered over his face. But something pulled him from the barrel of the gun, and Stan followed his gaze.

Retrieved from the backpack, Ike had assembled before him a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a rag. The rest of the backpack’s contents were upended and rolled over the rooftop. He had unscrewed the cap of the bottle and stuffed the rag in its neck. Standing up, Ike held the makeshift Molotov cocktail before him, a lighter in his other hand. It took three tries for his thumb to produce a flame.

He lit the rag and threw the bottle into the horde.

But at the same time, Cartman had followed the aim of Stan’s gun. He saw the zombies writhing, reaching closer and closer until they could grasp the jungle gym bars enclosing him and the others. And he saw how Kyle was absorbed by Stan, completely unaware of how close to him Cartman was standing.

Just as the first flames exploded, Cartman pushed Kyle over the jungle gym bars.

Ike screamed.

Fire erupted, transforming the horde of zombies into a burning lake. Heat swelled and watered Stan’s eyes, burning his nostrils. Flames licked up the dry dead zombie bodies like kindling, raging so ferociously Stan could not see Kyle fall to the ground. The zombies burned up quickly, like twigs, and a putrid blackish smoke soon billowed over the playground as they toppled into ash, limbs twitching, matchstick bones protruding.

The hellish scene raged. The grass was dead in the field, so there was nowhere for the fire to latch on and grow except upward. Bebe leapt to the top of the playground and shot herself a path through the flaming bodies, toppling them like great torches. She soared through the air and rolled into the dirt over her shoulder, tucking her head in expertly to lessen the impact, rifle in hand. Cartman imitated her, heaving himself from the top of the playground and landing sloppily on the already-cleared path Bebe left. The remaining upstanding zombies took no notice, the fresh human scent drowned out by decaying burning flesh.

Suddenly there was movement in the corner of Stan’s eye as Ike jumped off the roof.

The boy fell through seven feet of air and collapsed into all-fours, scrambling to his feet and running into the fire where Kyle had fallen. Stan chased him without hesitation, leaving everything on the roof but the gun still in his hand. Sweat beaded over his skin as he ran into the deadly furnace. He squinted through the grit and smoke, coughing as each inhale was infused with burnt bodies. There were zombies all around him, but Ike was nowhere to be seen. He was lost in the crowd.

Holding his gun out before him like a blind man, Stan headed for the playground. His leather jacket shielded the very worst of the fire, but Stan still felt his skin bubbling and reddening. The zombies took no notice of him, his scent made invisible by the fire. He moved slowly, cautiously. He couldn’t save anyone if he burned himself alive.

A little ways through the haze was a small figure crouched over, clearly alive. _Ike._ Stan ran to him, abandoning for a moment all thought of his own personal safety.

Ike was knelt over Kyle’s body, shaking him with both arms. The body was limp. Something dark trickled from the hairline. His eyes were open, but no one was home.

“KYLE! KYLE! KYLE!”

Ike’s cries were the most horrible thing. They cut Stan like a knife. But Stan felt the heat pressing inwardly, and with a fat bitter seed in his throat, tore Ike from the body. He held the boy tight as he could and ran through the fire, eyes and nose leaking, until he could see the empty field and blue sky and his lungs could breathe again.

Collapsing to his knees, Stan held Ike tighter. The fire roared a good ways behind them, confined to the zombies reach. Most were rendered immobile by the flames, their limbs burned and twisted beyond use. Plenty were inanimate, their brains roasted. The great danger was over.

There was a strange hiccupping, and Stan realized Ike was sobbing. Stan felt wetness trickling down his neck and shoulder. The dust settled around them. Stan’s insides were numb. He couldn’t feel a thing. He couldn’t see Ike in his arms, or the field or the fire. All he could see was Cartman pushing Kyle, playing over and over in his mind.

In the distance were two figures, alive. Stan stood up suddenly, releasing Ike. Blood roared in his ears. Red invading his vision. He sprinted at them.

Seeing the murder in his eyes, Cartman tried to run away, but he was too slow. Without a thought, Stan was on top of him wailing away with both fists, hearing bone crunch and hitting harder.

“WHAT-DID-YOU-DO!”

Every word was punctuated with a blow. Stan couldn’t hear if Cartman choked out an answer or not, or even if he was still conscious. All he heard was the _whap whap whap_ of his fists against Cartman’s face. Soon Stan felt slippery blood on his knuckles. He kept punching.

“WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” He roared in Cartman’s face, grabbing him by the collar and forcing his chin up. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Cartman coughed up spittle and blood. “You were….gonna shoot…anyways…” His eyes rolled up backwards and Cartman almost fainted, but Stan shook him violently awake. “He was…dead…anyways…”

“You piece of shit,” Bebe snarled, coming up behind Stan. Her eyes were cold water and she was shaking. “You absolute piece of shit.”

“Don’t…blame me…it’s the way it is…” Despite being bloodied and bruised, Cartman still somehow looked like a smug baby. “’sides…he cleared…a path for us….”

“You used him to save your own skin,” Stan breathed to himself. “You killed him. TO SAVE YOURSELF!” Another blow, right in the jaw.

“I-i-i…” Cartman struggled to breathe. “I-it’s kill…or be…killed… in this world…”

Stan raised his fist again, but a voice suddenly stopped him.

“Eric?”

Ike had walked over. There was a strange look in his eye.

Panic overtook Cartman’s face. “Ike! Ike, Ike Ike Ike…Lo-look….you gotta…gotta understand…”

“What was that you were saying? Before?”

Stan realized with a funny jolt that he had dropped his gun in the commotion.

“Uhh…well, y’know…” Cartman trailed off confusedly. “It’s…kill…or be killed…that’s th-”

“That’s what I thought.”

Ike raised Stan’s gun and aimed.

 

**_BANG_ **

 

 

\---------------------

 

_Epilogue_

 

_Three figures moved over the snowy horizon, backpacks strapped on their backs and swaths of clothe shielding their skin from the bitter wind. The sun was just rising, casting great shadows over the fields overlooking the small farmhouse the figures had come from. Two large sets of snow prints and one small were the only indicator that anyone had ever been there at all._

_“Four more days. Five maybe,” one of the figures said._

_Another figure groaned. “It’s getting too cold to travel. We’ll freeze to death if we don’t stop for the winter.”_

_The first figure shook its head, leading the other two drudging through thick snow. “The camp’s just a little further north. We can make it.”_

_“We can make it when spring comes.”_

_We won’t survive the winter out here. We need to keep going.”_

_“I agree with Stan,” said the last figure. “It’s too cold. If we don’t stop moving, we’ll die of hypothermia. We’ve already come too far to go back.”_

_The other figure grumbled, but soon trailed off as the sunny beams hit the horizon like gold arrows._

_“Ahh,” she said. “That feels amazing.”_

_The three carried on in silence. The day-long trek was so demanding that scarcely anyone had energy to spare for words. But these days, those weren’t often needed._

 

* * *

 

DID Y'ALL THINK I WAS DEAD???

I did not forget about this story. It (practically) haunted my every waking moment that I'd written so much, gotten so close to the end, only to have the strange and uncontrollable forces of the universe whisk me away. This past year has been crazy for me, bu I finally found the time, passion, inspiration, and work ethic to finish the longest fan fiction I've ever written.

Thank you thank you thank you, those who were with me from the beginning. The very beginning. Y'all know who you are, and I owe you so much for every kind word, message, and review you ever gave me. You shaped who I am as a write today.

To ya'll who are just discovering this fic, lol you'll never know the pain of the hiatus this fic suffered. Enjoy the ending ya bastards.

As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I will be updating regularly, I know that this was very short. The next chapter gets a bit more into the meat of the plot, so please stick around :)


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